


In the Trenches

by Amilyn



Category: Bones (TV)
Genre: Bullying, Canon Compliant, Child Abuse, Emotional Abuse, Foster Care, Gen, Giftedness, Physical Abuse, Pre-Canon, Sexual Assault
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-28
Updated: 2012-04-08
Packaged: 2017-10-31 21:09:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 63,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/348389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amilyn/pseuds/Amilyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First her parents vanished.  Then her brother left.  Then foster family after foster family didn't work out.  Temperance Brennan learned that there is no such thing as permanence, that she is no good at navigating interpersonal relationships, and that people will always let her down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hold the Fort

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers  
> Story ends pre-series, but contains spoilers for all episodes that deal with Brennan's childhood, past, and history, including: "Boy in a Bush," "Girl in the Fridge," "Woman in the Garden," "Woman in Limbo," "Judas on a Pole," "Stargazer in a Puddle," "Boy in the Time Capsule," "Sum in the Parts of the Whole," and "Death of the Queen Bee." My notes and extrapolations on Brennan's background can be found at [my Temperance Brennan Timeline](http://amilyn.livejournal.com/742675.html).
> 
> Warnings  
> Bullying. Physical and emotional abuse. Sexual assault/harassment/threats, threatened rape. These vary by part.

**Hold the Fort**  
***

~January 1992~

"Ms. Brennan."

Her head jerked up, eyelids scraping against dry corneas. She blinked slowly, and her stomach dropped as she realized what she'd done.

"Ms. Brennan? We're all waiting for your answer." The arch tone matched the eyebrow rising above horn-rimmed glasses.

Students tittered, and Temperance's chest and throat tightened along with her stomach. "I'm sorry, Mr. Lightfoot," she said softly. "Number seventeen?"

"Eighteen." He frowned.

Her shoulders crept up nearer her ears but she read the answers she had carefully printed on her study guide. She'd done all but two without referencing the book. "In order to determine the fall time of a ball thrown into the air in a frictionless environment," she drew in sharp breath as something narrow was shoved hard between her scapulae. She continued, ignoring the groans from the class as she spoke. "First you must know the vertical displacement, the velocity at which it ascends, the gravitational constant of nine-point-eight-one meters per second squared and the formula y = vt - zero-point-five gt-squared, where Y--"

"Yes, Ms. Brennan, thank you." The sleeve of Mr. Lightfoot's tweed jacket rode up his arm as he pointed to another student. "Mr. Pawlaczyk. Come to the board and draw a graph for a problem where velocity is the unknown variable. Ms. Mendez, while he's doing that, number nineteen."

Temperance ducked back into her notebook, biting her lip. She looked over her calculations for the eight problems she had created for this concept: two leaving out each variable, one set in a frictionless environment, the other set in a real environment. The rest of the class was soon solving Jeremy Pawlaczyk's problem, and Brennan turned the page to the several dozen problems she'd created and solved for balls rolling across flat surfaces (with and without friction), up and down slanted surfaces, for boxes being moved from a stationary position, being pushed along a flat surface steadily, being pushed up an incline. She was constructing an angle-of-ricochet calculation when the bell interrupted the review of question twenty-five.

"All right. Turn in your notes, and remember, semester exams are one week from today. I will supply formulae, but you are responsible for the applying the concepts."

Half the students were out the door before he said the word "exams," and by the time Temperance was dropping her pages of calculations into the in-box the room was nearly empty. Mr. Lightfoot said her name, and she stopped, shouldering her backpack.

"Are you all right? I've never seen you anything other than alert."

She forced her eyes from his bow tie to his face. Adults often called an averted gaze disrespectful. "I was up late studying. Thank you for asking."

He frowned, opened his mouth, closed it.

Temperance blurted, "I need to go to French. We have a unit test."

He nodded, and she rushed to the door, dodging students in the hallway on her way to class.

She couldn't make any more mistakes, she berated herself as she hurried. She couldn't draw attention to herself. No falling asleep. No being late. Nothing to hint that things were not managed and normal. She'd told the social worker who'd called to follow up after her parents disappeared that the situation was resolved. She hadn't lied. _She_ was resolved to wait and manage things, staying in the one place where the police could reach her with information, where her parents or Russ could find her when they came looking. She couldn't afford for the school to get suspicious and call social services.

Heart pounding, she made it to her seat just as French class started.

***

As soon as the final bell rang, Tempe ran for her locker in the far building. She twisted and dodged her way through the halls, but a few of the students she bumped into shouted, "Watch out, freak!" at her.

Ignoring the gibes, she spun her lock and yanked open the locker. She grabbed her coat with one hand and yanked on her hat and scarf with the other. She slammed the locker shut, snapped the lock closed, and snatched up her backpack in one movement. If she could just take her coat to her afternoon classes, she could avoid this mad dash back and forth across campus.

Outside, she did not move her eyes from the yellow bus that was her only way home, even when traction failed and she had to windmill her arms to avoid falling. Heedless of the burst of laughter, she sprinted on, reaching the bus and smacking her gloved palm against the glass just as the driver shifted into gear. He opened the doors and she climbed the three steps and sat behind the him, gasping. The bus pulled away seconds after she sat down, and deposited her on her corner twenty minutes later.

At only 3:30, it was already half dark and she trudged through snow that had drifted onto the sidewalk and along the sections of sidewalk that neighbors had not cleared. Her feet felt heavy but warm in the lined boots she and Mom had shopped for and bought back in November. It was the last afternoon they had spent out together.

The clouds hung low, and her breath fogged in the damp air. The cold nipped at her cheeks and pinched her forehead and ears where they peeked out from under her hat. The six books in her backpack weighed down on her shoulders and back like the approaching house weighed on her mind.

Today, she had promised herself, she would not hope.

She would simply go home. Either they would be there when she arrived, or the house would be empty, as it had been the day before and the two weeks before that. No amount of hope or mental bargaining would change the outcome.

She collected the mail before heading up the driveway to the side door, but didn't pause to look around. Anticipation would only lead to a longer period of anxiety followed by self-pity. These were the facts. They had been consistent every day since school had begun, just after Russ had driven away and not returned.

She turned the key in the lock, took a breath, and walked in. She set her backpack on her father's kitchen chair, carefully hung her winter gear on its hook, set her boots on the rubber mat beneath her coat, and sorted the mail methodically. Her father's she set at his place at the table, her mother's at that setting, Russ's occasional letter at his. Only those that were clearly household bills had she begun to remove and stack neatly on her mother's desk by the checkbook.

Mom had kept the checkbook as balanced as her accounting books at work, and Tempe knew there was still money for bills. Her methodical search of her mother's desk the previous night had revealed the car and house payment booklets and a calendar of payments. Temperance had already mailed the electric bill, but nothing more was due.

Tonight's study schedule was Physics, Pre-Calc, and French, then a dinner of the last can of Spaghetti-Os, followed by Anatomy, AP U.S. History, and American Lit, a careful perusal of the contents of the filing cabinets in the family office, and only then bed.

Her mother's alarm clock sounded just as Tempe started lit. It was her reminder to watch the weather report. If there was going to be more snow, she'd have to shovel, which meant getting up earlier in order to get to school on time. If the walks weren't shoveled, someone might notice. Everything had to look normal.

She sat with the book on her parents' bed, TV turned to WGN, and watched Tom Skilling's meteorology report. The reception was bad, but it was the only set that got the channel at all since she cancelled their cable. Weather report noted, Temperance flicked the TV off and finished with Eudora Welty and the South. Then she carefully re-packed her backpack and returned it to her father's chair. Her fingers lingered on the wood back as she stared at the piles of mail and the empty seats for a long moment.

It was over two hours later when she climbed into her parents' bed, wrapped her arms around her mother's pillow, and rested her head on her father's, with their blankets pulled up close under her chin.

Her father's alarm clock squawked at 5:30, she shivered under the covers, then she ran in place for a minute before throwing back the blankets and peering out the window. Cold radiated off the glass toward her face and hand. Dad had always trusted Skilling's science, and there, covering the driveway, sidewalk, and road, were the six inches of snow he'd predicted. Just like yesterday and the day before.

Dress, shovel, make sure the house wouldn't attract attention. It was like a litany in her head. She grabbed half a sandwich for breakfast, caught the bus, and was halfway to school before she realized she'd forgotten to make lunch.

***

"Temperance! Where are you going?" The girl grabbed at her sleeve.

Temperance tugged away, biting her lips as she spun her lock. "Home!"

Jodi leaned close to try and see into Tempe's face. "But today's Math Team. We need you there 'cause the next meet is this Saturday!"

"I can't." Tempe slammed her locker closed, grabbed her backpack, and wrapped her scarf around her neck, hurrying for the bus.

Jodi skipped sideways with her, then reached for the red fabric that spilled down Tempe's chest. "Isn't that your mom's scarf?"

"Yeah. Mine was wet." Under the straps of her backpacks, Tempe's shoulders ached from four consecutive days of shoveling snow morning and afternoon. Her homework, household maintenance, and sleep time had all suffered.

"Maybe it'll be dry when she picks you up." Jodi got in front of Tempe, pressing mittened hands together as if in prayer. "Pleeeease say you'll stay? We're up against Hinsdale and Niles this weekend and if you're there we could _win_."

"Jodi, I can't." Tempe looked over Jodi's shoulder to her bus at the front of the line and dodged around the other girl. "I've got to catch the bus."

"Your mom always gets you, though."

"She..." Tempe's chest and throat tightened. "She can't today."

Jodi spun away and ran alongside. "Well, at least I know _you'll_ be ready for the meet. The bus leaves school at six Saturday morning."

Tempe kept her eyes on the bus. "I can't come Saturday either."

Jodi grabbed her coat sleeve, stopping her. "You _have_ to come! We don't have a chance without you!"

Tempe tried to pull away, avoiding Jodi's eyes. "I don't have a ride. And--"

"My parents will drive you!"

"They can't!" She was not going to cry. It was the cold making her nose start to run. "Please. I'm going to miss my bus." Tempe pulled away again and Jodi's arms fell, the puffy white nylon of her coat whispering against itself as her eyes narrowed. "I'm sorry," Tempe said. "I have to catch my bus." She fled.

The bus started to move, and she ran with it for nearly ten feet, pounding on the door. The driver let her on and she huddled against the window in the seat behind him. Her stomach was knotted, aching with hunger as they drove past the cookie-cutter houses of the subdivisions. She kept her mouth open, breathing through her swollen throat as the edge of her mother's scarf absorbed the tears she couldn't hold back.

***  
 **Hold Your Ground**  
***

The doorbell woke her. She picked her head up from the nest of her parents' pillows and blankets, looked at the clock, blinked, looked again.

Nine. _Nine!_ She was late. She leapt out of bed, her heart pounding.

Then it hit her. Maybe it was them, and they'd somehow lost their keys. Dad never kept one hidden like some families did, which was logical; most "hiding places" were entirely obvious and thus unsafe.

She dressed frantically, desperate that they see that she was together, that she had kept everything running smoothly while she waited for them to come back. The doorbell rang again as she pulled on her jeans, she ran down the hallway calling, "I'm coming!"

She jerked the door open and felt the smile drain from her face. Her chest and abdomen felt as though gravity had released their hold. She gripped the doorknob until her fingers hurt. Keeping her spine straight through force of will alone, she swallowed hard.

It was a woman and a police officer. The police officer who'd taken the report she and Russ had given after her parents disappeared. He looked...serious or worried or sympathetic, and the woman looked the same.

Temperance licked her lips and forced herself to speak. "Hello, Officer Zukowski."

The officer touched his State Police Stetson and nodded his hello. "Hello, Temperance."

Tempe nodded once. It was about her parents. He had to have come about her parents. Good news, bad news...she couldn't tell from his tone or face. She held herself entirely still while every part of her vibrated inside.

He gestured to the woman next to him. "This is Susan Dougherty from the Department of Child and Family Services. We've received some calls expressing concern--"

"I'm sorry." Tempe planted her feet, her jaw tightening as the officer moved to step into the house. He wasn't there about her parents. He didn't know anything. Not yet. "I'm afraid I'm running late for school. Is there another time we could meet?"

The two exchanged a glance. Their faces had a look that always meant trouble, but Tempe never knew quite why, or what it implied. Susan Dougherty looked at her with the kind of expression that Tempe thought of as being used with very young children. Annoyed, Tempe kept her gaze on the officer.

He removed his hat. "There's no school today, Temperance. It's Saturday."

Saturday. She wasn't late. Saturday. She was missing the Math Team Meet. They were going to lose. She'd have missed it by oversleeping anyway. The driveway. She leaned to peer past the visitors. There were three or four inches of snow to shovel and increasingly little space to pile it. She had to shovel. She had to get them to leave. "I apologize. I misspoke."

Officer Zukowski leaned into the entryway. "Temperance, are your parents here?"

She lifted her chin and looked him straight in the eye, just like her dad had told her to do again and again. It was the way to assert herself, he always said, to demonstrate her authority on and certainty about a subject. "My parents went shopping."

The officer held her gaze and leaned infinitesimally closer to her face. "You and your brother Russell reported that they went shopping on December 23 of last year, and that they didn't return."

Tempe breathed faster. She had to force herself to maintain eye contact.

"I was the one who took your report. I told you your parents' car was found abandoned outside Trenton, New Jersey, on December 26." His voice softened slightly and he leaned in again. "Temperance, have you seen your parents since then?"

Brennan's gaze dropped to the worn spot on the seam of her sock. "No."

"What about your brother Russell? Is he home?"

"No," she whispered.

"Do you know where he is?"

She shook her head. She felt unsteady, like time had sped up and slowed down simultaneously. She had done everything right. She'd kept the house perfect. She'd made sure that no one would notice anything was different. She'd done all that work so she could stay here. Somehow they'd found out, somehow she'd gotten caught anyway, and she felt like things were falling apart around her. All she had left was the familiarity of the house, and if Russ or her parents came back, and she wasn't here.... She tried to even her breathing. The officer was asking something else.

"Temperance? How long has it been since you've seen him?"

"Sixteen days," she murmured. The officer wore solid duty boots, while the woman wore fluffy white boots over nylon stockings. Those boots wouldn't stay white for long. They would prove an unwise choice as snow turned to black slush in the gutters and on roadsides.

"Then I'm afraid we're going to have to insist on coming in," the officer was saying. "And Temperance?"

She stepped out of the way then closed the door behind them.

"Temperance."

She looked up.

"I'm going to have to insist that you not lie to us again."

"I didn't lie!"

Officer Zukowski sighed. "You have to tell us the whole truth, Temperance. We're here on official government business. Do you understand?" His voice was firm, but not unkind. Susan Dougherty just watched from his side, her expression unreadable.

"I understand."

"Temperance, is there somewhere we can put our coats?" Ms. Dougherty asked.

Tempe kept her back against the door and pointed. "There are hooks on the wall next to my coat."

"Let's sit down," Officer Zukowski said.

"You're not going to be staying that long." Tempe swallowed and blinked hard, still looking the two in the eye as much as possible. They studied the kitchen, peering through the door to the front room. Everything was in order. She wondered what they were seeing as they examined her as well, looking her up and down and frowning. The way they stared, it felt as if they could see right through her to where she quaked with fear.

"Actually, we have a number of questions. It may take a while," Mrs. Dougherty said. "Can we sit here?"

Temperance positioned herself between the visitors and the kitchen table. "No! You're not sitting at our table!"

"Listen, young lady--" Officer Zukowski began.

Mrs. Dougherty placed a hand on his arm. "Maybe we'd be more comfortable sitting on the sofa."

"That's possible," Tempe said. There was a long silence as the two adults looked at her. She had no idea what they were waiting for.

"So where is it?"

"Where is what?" she asked.

"The sofa."

"Oh," Temperance said, her voice very quiet again. "It's in the front room." She looked back and forth between the two for a long moment. "I'll show you."

They settled in, Temperance in her father's recliner, and Officer Zukowski and Mrs. Dougherty on opposite ends of the couch. Tempe remembered that her mother always offered tea or coffee and whatever cookies or crackers--with or without cheese--were in the cupboards when unexpected guests showed up. She couldn't for the life of her, however, remember how to make coffee or tea, nor could she remember if there was anything in the house suitable to serve.

"Temperance," the officer began, "we got three calls from a neighbor just this week worried about your safety. They reported you've been up before 5:30 every day to shovel snow, and there hasn't been a car on the premises since Christmas. They were concerned you might be in danger."

"What's dangerous about shoveling snow? It's the law to shovel the walks. Nothing looked amiss. I kept normal hours! No one was inconvenienced! I went to school, and I came home, and--"

"Temperance," he continued, "we also got a call from DCFS expressing concern that they had not been able to follow up with you and your brother after your parents' disappearance."

Tempe frowned. "But they did follow up. A Mrs. Walker called on January fifth, and I informed her that there was no longer a need for their services."

"But Temperance," Ms. Dougherty said, "your brother had agreed to discuss allowing you to be placed in foster care, but he never returned our calls. I came to the house to attempt a visit, but it was always quiet and empty. When I went to your school, the school said you had been attending regularly, and that you are an exemplary student, but your teachers were concerned about what they've seen as increased exhaustion and distraction since the break."

Tempe shook her head. Russ had been going to give her away. Even before he left, he'd already given up. Her hands were shaking. Her shoulders sagged. Her chest and belly felt empty. "I've been waiting for them to come back...." She trailed off as the two faces shifted into matching expressions. She was fairly certain it was pity, and she hated that she wanted their sympathy. She hated herself for the tears that coursed down her cheeks.

"Russ planned to send me to foster care," she whispered, trying it as a fact.

The only result of saying it aloud was that the sobs she had controlled so tightly for almost a month now began to batter their way past her taught throat muscles. Her chest and throat and stomach and cheeks hurt, and she fought for control, but though she kept the humiliating whimpers relatively quiet, she couldn't stop them.

She looked at her lap, trapped by the knowledge that these two strangers were watching her, seeing her fall apart, and the fear that they'd stop her if she tried to leave.

A tissue was pressed into one hand and a glass into the other. She didn't know who had stood or how they'd gotten the glass without her noticing. As she wiped her nose, she stared at the clear liquid in the glass. Water, the most plenteous compound on the planet, and yet the one that showed peculiar traits when compared to the expectations of the physical properties of other compounds in their different states. Perhaps it was the other compounds that didn't fall into a normal pattern, and water's properties that were--

"Temperance?" Mrs. Dougherty said quietly.

Tempe wiped her nose and took several very deliberate breaths before glancing up. She dropped her gaze immediately back to the damp tissue she was folding into careful squares. "Why would Russ give me away?"

"Well," Mrs. Dougherty said, "I admit that was my recommendation when I met with him."

Tempe's head shot up, and she met the woman's eyes. "You _told_ him to leave me?" she demanded.

The woman seemed to jerk back an inch, and Tempe wondered if she'd been too loud again. "No, Temperance. We would never tell anyone's family to leave them."

Her gaze slipped away from the woman's face and back to the rug. "But he did leave."

"We encouraged him to allow you to be placed in foster care where you would be cared for and protected. Russell is only nineteen himself. He had a part time job in...something with cars, I think--"

"He was working at the local shop, doing oil changes and tire rotations. They were about to start training him on larger repairs," Tempe said. "He'd been working there since he was fifteen, and he knew quite a bit, so they were going to help him get some professional certifications."

There was utter silence in the room.

"I had no idea," Mrs. Dougherty finally said. "He didn't tell me."

"That's Russ." Tempe smiled, just a bit. "He never brags about himself."

"I told him that it was unlikely that he could support you both in this house, and that although we had no services we could provide to him at his age, he would be doing his best for you if he let us make sure you were cared for so that any financial problems didn't affect your chances of finishing high school, especially if your parents weren't found."

Tempe turned to the police officer. "Officer Zukowski, has there been any new information about my parents' disappearance?"

"No, I'm afraid not. Not since their car was found."

"I would like to speak to the investigator in charge of their case."

"Temperance, I'm afraid there is no investigator. There _is_ no case. We have no leads, no information. There are no indications of foul play--"

"What about the blood in the car? The report said there was blood in the car. One of them...both of them...might have been...." She took a short breath. "They might have been...hurt."

"Ms. Brennan, any injury could have caused that...a cut finger, a bloody nose...nothing in the case indicates any kind of assault. There's no evidence that a crime has been committed other than their abandonment of you."

"Wait. You're telling me that you think my parents abandoned me on purpose and that there's no reason to keep looking for them. And you," she looked at Mrs. Dougherty, "told my brother he couldn't take care of me?"

The adults glanced at each other.

Tempe felt suddenly cold. "This is my fault. I'm the one who insisted to Russ that we call the police. He'd still be here if I hadn't. We trusted you to try and find our parents!" She turned on Mrs. Dougherty. "We would have made it, the _two_ of us, until our parents came back."

"Temperance, you need to calm down," Mrs. Dougherty said.

"Calm down? You told my brother he wasn't good enough to take care of me. You told him he wasn't worth your help. He _left_."

"Temperance--"

"Stop using my name like I'm a child who needs calming down!"

"Then calm down," Mrs. Dougherty said briskly. "We're going to need to pack soon so that we can process you into the system. Saturdays are always busy."

"Pack?" She looked at them, and the pit of her stomach knotted. "Pack for what?"

"You're fifteen years old. We can't let you stay here alone."

She decided Mrs. Dougherty could not be reasoned with and turned to the other adult. "Officer Zukowski, I've been here alone for nearly three weeks, and I've been fine. This is my home, my family's home. I've paid bills. The items here belong to me and to my family. More important, semester exams begin on Monday, and I can't miss them."

"I'm sympathetic to the points you're making," he said, "but I have no choice but to take you into protective custody. You're an unattended minor, and legally we can't leave you here alone."

"Perhaps if you have family you could call?" Mrs. Dougherty suggested.

Tempe bit her lip, looking down again as she shook her head. "It's just us. We don't have any family." _I don't have any family at all now._

"We'll do our best to keep you in your school for the upcoming semester. We try to cause as little disruption as possible to children's lives."

Tempe just stared at her. She turned to the policeman. "Officer Zukowski, what will happen to my family's house? Who will pay the bills so it doesn't go into foreclosure? What about our belongings?"

It was the officer's turn to look away. "Typically the bank will assume ownership of the house, sell the contents, and any monies that remain after the note is paid are put into a trust for the children, er, for you."

"But...what about Russ? This is our house. These things belong to us! What happens when my parents come back?" She pushed aside the idea of them injured or in some terrible situation that was keeping them away, and forced words past her fear. "What then?"

"Well, depending on the circumstances, the most likely outcome would be that they would be charged with child abandonment, making the condition of the house and its contents the least of their worries." Officer Zukowski looked sympathetic, she thought. Or angry. She wasn't sure what she'd done wrong now.

Mrs. Dougherty stood up. "Temperance, you need to pack. You may bring two bags. Do you need help?"

Tempe stood as well. She was taller than the social worker, a fact that gave her a modicum of comfort. "I can do it." She went to her mother's desk and gathered the manila folder into which she'd put the family birth certificates, social security numbers, and photographs. She slid the folder into her backpack.

In her parents' room, she grabbed the pair of earrings and two rings that lay undisturbed next to the jewelry box. She couldn't help a quick glance in the mirror. Her mother was so beautiful wearing these and she just looked...like plain Temperance.

She carefully made the bed, then dragged the suitcases from the top of their closet. She picked up Mom's robe and her favorite cardigan. Mom wouldn't have left either of those behind if she'd had a choice. They were her favorites.

She walked across the hall and plopped the suitcase onto her own bed. She carefully set the still-wrapped gifts into the suitcase, lingering over them with a light touch. Russ had done this for her and she hadn't spoken to him, not that entire week after Christmas. He'd left and hadn't said goodbye...and she hadn't said goodbye either.

She turned away and yanked open drawers, lifting neatly-folded pants and shirts, handfuls of underwear and socks, piles of sweaters and sweatshirts, and stacking them all in the suitcases. She threw in some of her nice clothes and shoes from her closet. She added a photo from her nightstand, her alarm clock, and finally began pulling down books from her shelves. The suitcases were bulging when she clicked one closed and zipped the other, and she wrestled them down the hallway one by one. As she walked out of her room for the last time, she looked back at it and realized that for all that she'd taken, her room still looked the same. It was like her departure had no impact on the world she'd lived in.

"Are we ready?" Mrs. Dougherty asked when Tempe set the suitcases at the bottom of the stairs.

"You remember I have semester exams this week, right, Mrs. Dougherty?" Tempe said. "I need to take my exams to get my final grades."

Mrs. Dougherty set a hand on Tempe's shoulder. "We'll do our best, but we can't make any promises."

Tempe moved away from the woman's touch, picked up her suitcases, and dragged them to the kitchen. She put on her coat, boots, hat, her mother's scarf, and her backpack. Then she saw the shovel.

"I didn't shovel yet today. I need to shovel the drive and the sidewalk."

"Don't worry about that, Temperance," Officer Zukowski said. "Just come with us." He reached for her larger suitcase. "Let me get that for you."

She yanked it away. "No. I can do it." She dragged the suitcases out the door herself and put them in the back of the squad car. They opened the back car door for her and closed her in like she was a criminal.

On the way to the DCFS office she read Howard Zinn's history of the tens of thousands of children sent from New York City to the Midwest on orphan trains.

***  
***


	2. Rules and Regs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brennan's first foster home is complicated by the other child in the household.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: bullying.

**Establishing Routine**

~February 1992~

The storm door slammed, the glass panel already fogged over from the cold.

"Temperance, your lunch!" The high, sweet voice called from the kitchen.

Temperance tucked the ends of her scarf through the loop and buttoned her wool coat over it. "Mrs. Martin, I get free lunch in the cafeteria. There's no reason for you to make me a lunch every day."

"I know, sweetheart, but I want you to feel wanted here." The woman tucked her terrycloth robe around her nightgown and re-tied the belt. Her helmet of curled, yellow hair didn't move.

Temperance blinked then shrugged into her backpack.

Mrs. Martin reached for Temperance's hand and wrapped it around the brown paper sack. "Go ahead and take it. We can talk later. Just know that you're welcome here."

Temperance pulled on her hat and gloves, then stuffed the lunch in her coat pocket as she left the house, pulling the door closed behind her.

Welcome. They'd tried to welcome her when Mrs. Dougherty drove her there from the emergency group home where she'd spent that first weekend away from her own home. The group home had been a mass of contradictions. Called "home" but not home. Barely-controlled chaos and at the same time a police state. Filled with teens fragile and vulnerable but acting tough and angry to cover it. Even Temperance had been able to see that.

Two days. A lifetime. Everything different. Nowhere did Einstein's theory or Relativity apply more than in perception of time

And still, it had been the same to be in the back seat, and though there had been no metal grill separating her from Mrs. Dougherty, she was just as trapped as in the back of Officer Zukowski's police squad.

Mrs. Dougherty had looked at her in the rear-view mirror as she had pulled into the driveway of the ugly little green split-level. "The Martins are going to be your foster parents. They live here with Kyle, who's twelve. They're looking forward to meeting you. Tomorrow Mrs. Martin will take you to register for classes."

"I have exams tomorrow," Temperance had said. Her voice had sounded flat, even to her ears. Mom had tried so often to tell her about inflection ("prosody," Dad had called it) and how it mattered and got people to listen and care about what you were saying.

"I know, Temperance, and I'm sorry, but there were no families near enough to your old high school. Their office should be able to send your grades. Schools are very good about this sort of thing. Don't worry. I'm sure you'll make new friends at Addison Trail."

Temperance had felt like an icy gas was drifting over her, through her head, arms, torso, legs. She had found she couldn't speak. Maybe if she'd sounded more interested, like Mom had tried to show her. Russ was always saying--had always said...but he was gone now, she reminded herself--that she sounded like she didn't care when she talked like that.

Her car door had opened. She looked up.

"Come on, Temperance, let's not keep them waiting. The Martins are eager to meet you."

She hadn't said a word to the smiling couple or their scowling son, had nodded blankly at the introductions. Mr. Martin had tried to take her suitcase for her, but she'd held it tightly and looked at the floor, her jaw tense. He'd let go and led her to a simple room with light green walls and a Strawberry Shortcake comforter on the bed.

"This is where you'll sleep, Temperance," Mr. Martin had said. He'd pointed. "Kyle's room is next door and ours is just down the hall. We'll be downstairs until after the weather report. Can't prepare for the day without Tom Skilling." He grinned. "Mary will wake you up in the morning for breakfast. If you need anything tonight--if you can't find something, or you have a nightmare--just knock on our door."

That had been sufficient welcome, Temperance thought, her mind returning to the present as snow crunched under her boots as she rounded the corner, straight into Kyle's sneering orbit.

"Took you long enough, Temper," he sing-songed.

She didn't look at Kyle or his friends as she drew to a stop a good two meters away. She pulled her fingers out of the glove fingers and balled them into her palms. Even wearing layers, the wait had her shivering, and she tightened successive large muscle groups in a futile effort to keep warm.

A kid in a red puffy coat stopped hopping up and down. "Hey, Kyle, does she have a temper as big as her stupid name?"

"Dunno. But every other word she says is big." Kyle kicked snow at her, and she shook it off the top of her boots before the cold could permeate. "She's a total goody-two-shoes. Does all her homework before Mom even gets dinner ready."

Temperance pressed her lips together and tugged her scarf up higher with her chin. She had corrected him the first time he'd called her "Temper," telling him her full name. The face he'd pulled had made it clear even to her that he'd done it on purpose, and now he called her nothing else. She didn't comment that the homework was done quickly because it was too easy. She might not be a social genius, but she still knew that would just give them more ammunition.

Mom would have said she was taking the high road, was not sinking to their level, and Dad would have chuckled at the "high road" comment. Russ would have just knocked their blocks off because no one talked to his sister like that and got away with it. But Russ didn't care enough to protect her when it really mattered.

"She gets all that done _that fast_?" a boy in a sports-team coat was asking. "Mike says she's in his physics class even though she's a sophomore. Does she cheat or something?"

Kyle rolled his eyes. "I don't know. She's supposed to be all _super_ -smart, but I'm betting she has a teacher's edition or answer key or something. And you should have seen the _fit_ she threw _wanting_ to get into that class, and a super-hard math one, too."

"What is she, crazy?" a girl's voice piped up.

"Apparently so."

The voices blended together, and Temperance turned to watch the yellow bus pull up, then stepped forward when the doors squeaked open. Kyle shoved her out of the way and tromped up the steps before her.

"Hey!" the driver called. "None of that horseplay, you hear?"

Temperance heard one of his friends mutter "Dumb-ass" as she squeezed next to a thin, younger girl who already sat directly behind the driver. They never spoke to each other beyond a possible "good morning." It seemed that she and the girl had learned the same lesson about school bus safety.

The bus made its stops, its interior getting louder and warmer with each added body. It stopped first at the middle school, and Temperance stood to let the girl out. She moved to sit, and Kyle slammed into her, muttering "bitch" on his way out. As she fell hard against the vinyl she wondered absently if he was saying that to her or the bus driver.

***

Temperance sat in the orange plastic chair and observed that school lunch rooms were much the same everywhere. Her old school had been less than a decade old, two stories high, with classrooms painted various colors. This school was the entirely cinder-block design she remembered from her first elementary school. It had the sagging look of a building from the late 1930s with worn and speckled tile floors and science labs with only two lab tables each.

The inadequate facility made her glad she had stood her ground and insisted the Addison Trail counselor to call her old school a second time. They confirmed that she had completed chemistry and should be placed in physics. She could not bear the thought of chemistry with demonstration and no hands-on labs. Dad would never have accepted that in his classroom, let alone for her.

The lunchroom, though, was mostly the same. Addison Trail had round tables while her old school had square ones. Addison Trail had a single lunch line while her old school had two--one for traditional lunch, one with more options. Both had a thoroughly wasted 45-minute period for the teenagers to get completely out of control.

When Temperance had arrived at Addison Trail she'd just missed taking semester exams, which were held the week before her old school. Mrs. Dougherty and the counselor had tried to cheer her up, saying it meant she'd get out of school two weeks earlier than she would have, and she had glared at them with what Russ called her "scary-mad-flashy eyes." Neither woman had tried to reassure her about less school again. That had been two weeks ago, and this French II class was only just catching up to where she'd been. The only upside was that she'd been able to make use of the time by learning the vocabulary that was different than her previous textbook.

Lunch was after Mrs. Milligan's World History class. She sat by herself, walking past the other students to a table against the far wall. She ate her lunch quickly and began homework for morning classes, tuning out the screams and laughter of students whose names she didn't know. But amidst the cacophony, she heard the students nearby quite clearly.

"There she goes. What kind of a name is 'Temperance' anyway?"

"Well, what I really want to know is how she got herself thrown into foster care."

"She's a foster kid?"

"If you had a kid like that, wouldn't you ditch and run?"

"Well, what kind of weirdos do her parents have to be to give her a name like that in the first place? Maybe they're real nutcases."

"Maybe it's genetic. Have you tried talking to her?"

"Why the hell would I do that?"

"Mrs. Milli-goat put her in my group. Everything she says sounds like she stepped out of some PBS thing. I'm telling you, there's something wrong with her."

No one had said that in years. Russ had seen to it. But maybe he'd been wrong about that too. There obviously wasn't enough right about her for him to stay.

She gathered up her homework--done to the standard Mom always called "overkill"--as the bell rang. For once she hurried to art although it was a complete waste of a class period. She'd had no other choices since this school didn't offer physiology. Right after art was P.E. because the school's schedule meant she should have had Driver's Ed in the fall, but she supposed that didn't matter now that she didn't have access to a car.

Her afternoon didn't feel like school. Lunch, art, P.E.--it was too long a time without intellectual stimulation. Her mind wandered, dwelling on too many possibilities. Where were her parents? Were they all right? Would they ever come back? Who had made them leave? Were they dead? They couldn't be dead. But what had happened to them? And Russ...would he ever come back? Had he ever loved her at all? Had she driven him away? What would happen if they came back? How could they find her? What if they came back and the police arrested her parents like Officer Zukowski had said?

There were no answers. Too many questions, not enough lines of inquiry.

Her current art project was on progressive shading. She dipped the tip of her paintbrush in blue tempura and stirred it into white. She painted inside the penciled edges of the next square on her paper, dipped the brush tip into the blue again, stirred, repeated. Three squares later, she laid the page on the drying table.

"Oh my God, she's _such_ a freak!" said one of the girls as she headed back to her seat. "How many of those is she going to _do?_

"Probably as many as it takes to get _done_ , Mindy," said another girl, who was dipping her own paintbrush into orange. "Just because _you_ rushed through _your_ shading project in, like, two pages, doesn't mean no one _else_ gives a shit."

Temperance heard Mindy's gasp of indignation as she settled back into her seat with a fresh piece of paper. She marked off 1 1/2-inch squares, lined up her ruler, and drew in a perfect grid with perpendicular intersections. She resumed painting, each square ever so slightly darker blue than the one before. It was hardly discernable from one square to the next, but each line was more blue and less white than the one before. The tiniest contaminant, bit by bit, would slowly change the basic nature of a substance.

Brennan dipped her brush in the blue, stirred. Was this what she would be like? Changing, a drop at a time until she assimilated into this strange world that didn't understand her? When her parents came back, would she still be a Brennan?

The brush shook in her hand as she painted the next square and the next. _At what point will there be nothing left of me?_

The teacher announced cleanup time, and Temperance put away her supplies and headed for P.E. With the weather, they were on indoor P.E. indefinitely, so they were doing circuits. Temperance did 23 circuits of 2 laps and an activity each. By the end, her chest was burning, but she'd stopped thinking.

***  
 **Rules and Regs**  
***

Temperance did all of her work in her room, and, except for "family" dinner time, spent all her time there with the door closed, ignoring Kyle's periodic kicks at her door. She saw no point to interacting with people who were not her family. People who were never going to be her family.

Instead she kept her mind busy. In addition to doing her homework, she'd read half a dozen books since arriving. So far she'd been able to supply herself with books from the high school's tiny library, but soon she'd be reduced to reading Mrs. Martin's romance novels.

She needed a library card for this town, and Mrs. Martin hadn't found time to take her. She'd go herself, but the bicycle she had picked out with Dad for riding through the forest preserves was in the shed in the backyard...if either were still there.

She'd been in the Martins' home for three weeks, and the only thing that felt remotely normal was the doing of homework.

The food was still...different. Never bad, but never anything that tasted like home. The bed had a slight dip and was a touch too soft where it wasn't too hard. The pillows were too flat. She should have brought her own but it hadn't occurred to her in the flurry of packing.

Her clothes even felt and smelled wrong; Mrs. Martin used fabric softener in everything, and the towels would hardly absorb any water.

Instead of area rugs, this house had static-generating carpet. She felt like everything she touched shocked her a bit.

Doing her homework, though, that was a constant. This Tuesday she sat in the living room, history book in her lap, waiting for the broadcast her Physics teacher had asked them to see. Limited experience had taught her that staking out the television time was necessary.

Kyle walked past and swatted at her hair, flipping his hand back and forth through its length at her neck.

"Stop it!"

"Oh, does that bother you, Temper?" he asked in a mocking tone.

She concentrated on reading about Theodore Roosevelt and the Spanish-American War.

Kyle flopped down on the couch next to her and turned on the television, which sang, "We're tiny, we're toony, we're all a little loony..."

"Kyle, I'm doing my homework."

"Bor-ring! That's all you ever do. You should have some fun sometime." He sang along with the theme song, leaning toward her to shout, "Elmyra is INSANE!"

She turned slightly away, scooting her hips, leaning to the side, and pulling the book closer to her face. She started the paragraph about canals in Central America again, adjusting her thinking so that sound was filtered out.

Several pages later Kyle patted her shoulder rapidly. "Look! Temper, look-look-look!" He pointed while waving a hand between her face and the book.

She looked up.

"Ha! Gotcha!"

"Kyle, I'm reading my homework. Don't you have homework to do?"

"I don't _do_ homework. Anyway, it was all dumb."

She set the book in her lap, frowning. "Is the work difficult for you?" She paused. Then, though she felt a shudder at the thought, continued "I could help you if you like."

"What? You think I'm STUPID?" Kyle shouted. "Just because you're some kind of freaking GENIUS you think that I need your help?"

"I didn't say that--"

"MOM!" Kyle ran out of the room. "Temper-Temper said I was stupid!"

Mrs. Martin appeared, a crease folding her forehead. Even Temperance could see her concern. "Temperance, were you making fun of Kyle?"

"No, ma'am," Temperance shook her head. "I'm doing my homework and he was interrupting me, so I offered to help him with his."

Mrs. Martin looked at her, still frowning, then said, "Temperance, I want you to come here, please. Kyle, go ahead and watch your cartoon."

When they reached the laundry room off the kitchen, Mrs. Martin closed the door. There was a long silence, and Temperance looked at her feet. She hated being in trouble--the way her stomach moved too freely, the way she could feel her face hot and red, how she couldn't stop chewing her lip. She was sure she looked guilty of whatever it was Mrs. Martin was sure she'd done.

"Temperance, you're new here, and you don't know Kyle very well." The woman reached to touch her arm, but Temperance stepped back, and Mrs. Martin let her hand fall. "Kyle has always had a very hard time in school. His learning disabilities just add to his emotional and behavioral problems. I think it's even worse for him that you do so very well." Mrs. Martin's smile looked somewhat apologetic.

Temperance had no idea what to say. Should she apologize? She couldn't offer to do poorly in school. She had no idea how to pretend the work was hard.

"You've got to understand," Mrs. Martin continued quickly. "Kyle's been working really, really hard. He has. He's doing so much better than a couple of years ago. He's having some small successes. It's better than he's ever done." Here she nodded, smiling. "But he's not stupid. You have to know that and remember that. It's just...when he sees you, I think it hurts him and he feels even more stupid than he already does. He's just very frustrated and..." Mrs. Martin cringed. "Well...I think it would probably be easier for him if you always did your schoolwork in your room like you have been. Do you think you could do that?"

Temperance could feel a piece of dry skin peeling off between her teeth and she wrapped her fingers around each other. "Yes, ma'am," she whispered.

"Thank you," Mrs. Martin said, and reached for her again.

Temperance evaded Mrs. Martin's touch then said, "I was only down here today because I need to watch a NASA report. It's on the _MacNeil-Lehrer News Hour_. My physics teacher asked us to. I was afraid I wouldn't get a turn on the TV. That's why I was downstairs."

"Well, that's fine, of course. We are really proud of how well you're doing in this new school."

At that Temperance did look into Mrs. Martin's eyes. Why would she be proud? Foster parents were paid to provide food and shelter, not to care about their ward’s well-being. Pride was an emotional response and required a connection that didn't exist in their relationship.

"It helps us so much that you set a good example for Kyle. I think he'll take to you after a while. Just ignore his behavior. If he doesn't get a reaction, he'll stop."

She frowned, off her guard, and Mrs. Martin got a hand on her arm and rubbed it twice. She flinched away, mumbling another "yes, ma'am," as she went back to the couch.

Through the rest of her AP History chapter, Kyle poked her arm, looked over her shoulder and read words aloud, and bumped into her when he laughed at the cartoon. Temperance just pulled farther back against the arm of the sofa and turned the book away from his view. She wrote a practice essay timed to the length of the following cartoon.

Kyle grabbed the paper during a commercial and yanked it away, causing a long pen mark across the page.

"Stop! That's my homework!"

"Are you getting mad yet? Am I bothering you yet?"

She curled her feet up under her, trying to make space between her and Kyle, and finished the essay. She tucked it carefully into her folder, placing that on the end table away from him. She did her Calculus and Physics problems through the next program, reminding Kyle of her reserved time.

"Do people tell you two or three times a day that you're ugly?" He poked at her cheek. "I'm surprised I haven't turned to stone yet."

"Don't touch me," she growled.

"Don't touch me, don't touch me," he sing-songed back.

"Don't you have a show to watch?"

"Don't you have a show to watch?"

She knew this game and had never won it with Russ or the kids at her old school, so she stopped speaking and just focused on the problems on the page. The clock gave her twenty-five minutes until the broadcast.

At five till six, she said, "Kyle, I need to watch something for school. Please turn to channel 11."

"And who's going to make me?"

"Kyle, give me the remote. I have homework to do."

"That's all you do, little prissy two-shoes. You think you're _so smart_."

"I _am_ so smart," she replied. "And I have physics work to do." She grabbed at the remote and tugged.

"Oh, are you getting mad now? Temper, Temper, do you have a temper?"

"Give it to me!" she demanded, feeling her cheeks flame again--or still--with the sting of the past two hours of slights. She pried his fingers away from the remote and yanked it out of his hands. "Give it to me and leave me alone, you little brat!"

"Temperance!" Mr. Martin was standing behind them, eyes dark. "Temperance, name-calling is _unacceptable_ in this household. You should know better. We expect you to set an example of positive behavior for Kyle."

"But, Mr. Martin--"

"No, buts, young lady. You are going to spend the evening in your room to reflect on how this kind of behavior is hurtful to others. Mrs. Martin will bring you a minimal dinner, but you will not leave except to use the restroom. And if I _ever_ catch you speaking like that to _anyone_ in this house again, you will lose a great many more privileges. Do I make myself clear?"

Temperance felt a huge pressure in her chest and throat, a combination of indignation, shame, and mortification that he would think this of her. Tears threatened, and she blinked them back as she whispered, "Yes, sir. But--"

"I said no buts."

"May I please watch this report for my homework?"

"Report?"

"Yes, sir. NASA has new images of Jupiter from the Hubble Space Telescope and measurements that demonstrate the flow of subatomic particles in the immense gravitational and magnetic field of the planet. We just did gravitational fields in physics and--"

"See?" Kyle pointed at her, his finger almost touching her. "See? She does this all the time just to show off!"

"Kyle, I don't think she's doing it on purpose," Mr. Martin soothed.

"Yes, she is! She's been making fun of me since we got home, telling me I'm stupid and rubbing my face in it about how great she is."

"I have n--"

"Just watch your report, Temperance. Then go to your room. I don't want to see you lose your temper with Kyle like this again. Come on, kiddo. Tell me about your day while we set the table." He put an arm around Kyle's shoulders.

Temperance held the remote in a death-grip and pressed the buttons to change the channel and adjust the volume. She took notes on auroral activity at Jupiter's poles and the data about how the UV and infrared aurorae were impossible to study through the filter of Earth's atmosphere. As soon as they moved to another topic she fled to her room, where she wrote up her notes with references to the book's analogy of space as a rubber sheet and the bending of light and particles along the gravity well.

Mrs. Martin didn't speak to her when she brought in food, and Temperance felt ashamed and guilty, avoided making eye contact, then ate quickly and went to bed.

She fell asleep curled into a tight ball, clutching a sweater that had been her mother's.

***  
 **Following Orders**  
***

Temperance walked from the bus through falling snow. There was already a half inch on the sidewalk, and she decided to go to bed early so she could get up and shovel before school. She quickened her pace, then pulled up short and stood entirely still.

The realization hit that she was not home, that _she_ probably wouldn't be shoveling, that her parents were gone and she was with the Martins and probably Mr. Martin would do his own shoveling. She wasn't home, wouldn't ever be home. Because she had failed. She had attracted attention and so if her parents came back... _when_ they came back...they would come back to an empty house, or, worse, to a house repossessed and sold to strangers, all because she had not pretended well enough. She'd never been good at pretend.

She looked around at the strange neighborhood. It was quiet. The blanket of snow absorbed most sounds, and the remaining ones were soft, whispering sibilants, barely detectable even with her excellent hearing. The suburban dwellings Dad always called "cookie-cutter houses" looked almost nice--a bit quaint, like in a greeting card--with a new layer of white decorating them.

The crystals of snow pricked at her cheeks, and a gust blew a handful of flakes into her eyes and nose. She gasped, and the cold air filled her lungs, causing her entire chest to tighten. Her nose was running, her eyes were watering, and she couldn't even pretend it was all because of the cold. She reached the Martin's house number, walked across the lawn, and settled herself under the front bushes, then leaned against the springy branches and cried.

It was rather a while later when the storm door scraped open. "Temperance? Temperance, are you out there?"

She didn't want Mrs. Martin to worry, but her breath was catching, and her face and lips were numb and she had no idea if she could speak if she tried. She yanked off a glove and swiped a hand over her face, then wiped it in the snow, then on her coat. She disentangled herself from the bush and climbed to her feet, barely avoiding over-balancing with her backpack. She headed up the walk and was on the first step when the door swung open again. This time Mrs. Martin, bundled in her winter coat, stepped out.

"Temperance!"

"Hello, Mrs. Martin."

"Temperance, where have you been? I was about to call Bob."

"I'm sorry I'm late. I was," she paused, took a breath, and licked her lips. "I was delayed."

"Was your bus late? Kyle's bus got home on time."

"No, my bus was on time. I just got...distracted."

"Come on, we'll let all the warm air out." Mrs. Martin ushered her into the house and was quiet while they removed boots and coats. Temperance hung both their coats in the front closet while Mrs. Martin hung the hats and scarves on hooks. She reached for her backpack, and Mrs. Martin touched her arm. "Temperance."

She tensed, struggling not to jerk away.

"I don't know what rules you were used to, or what your after-school activities were, but, as we told you, we expect you to come home directly from school. There is too much out there to worry about, and it's our job to make sure you're safe."

"Yes, ma'am." She concentrated on breathing in and out smoothly. "I'm sorry. It won't happen again." She recognized Mrs. Martin's tone as scolding and disappointed, and hated to have the woman think badly of her, hated that she was in trouble. Even more unbearable was the idea that anyone would know she had been crying in the bushes, so she bit her lip.

"You'll go up and do your homework and then, when you come down for dinner, we'll all spend a family evening together."

Temperance's stomach dropped. This was not her family. She glared at Mrs. Martin, clenching her teeth at the suggestion that she should bond with these people as if they were replacement parents and brother.

Mrs. Martin was smiling and her face was...gentle, Temperance thought. "I know you miss your parents, honey, so I want you to have an evening where you belong. I'll call you when dinner is ready."

Temperance nodded once before she fled up the stairs, closing her bedroom door and leaning against it as her heart pounded. Tears threatened again, and she banished them. She sat on Strawberry Shortcake's cap on the bedspread and unpacked her backpack. Schoolwork. She only had until dinner, and she'd already wasted time crying. She had schoolwork to do, to lose herself in.

American Lit here was just starting _Huckleberry Finn_ , the novel she'd been going to write about on for exams at her other school, so she'd picked up _Uncle Tom's Cabin_ and _Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass_ to complement Twain's commentary on slavery. There had been excerpts of those in her AP U.S. History text that had whetted her appetite. At least AP U.S. was on track here, as was Pre-Calc, and the history and lit teachers coordinated their units often. Neither was particularly difficult, but at least they were interesting.

She finished her Calculus problems, plus the ones not assigned, then read her chapter of Zinn and wrote her practice essay for AP U.S. She was in the middle of a chapter of _Uncle Tom's Cabin_ when Mrs. Martin called them for dinner.

Mrs. Martin's spaghetti was not as good as Mom's, but there was broccoli and very good garlic bread. After dinner, Kyle cleaned off the table while Temperance did the dishes. He brought the last dishes to the sink, slamming a glass on her little finger as he set it down.

"You think you're such a smarty-pants?" he asked. "Wait till I kick your ass in _Life_."

As she rinsed the last pans she wondered how he was going to best her in life, or how he'd know he'd done so. She wished it was Mom there, putting away leftovers and humming an old song, then protesting laughingly when Dad pressed up against her back and kissed behind her ear. It seemed to Tempe like everything reminded her of something about them, and the ache of wondering and worrying tightened through her. Perhaps Kyle, with parents who cared about him, was actually beating her at life.

Mr. Martin called her back to the table, where Mrs. Martin was organizing play money while her husband and Kyle placed cars and houses on the game board. She looked at the box. _The Game of Life_. Finally Kyle's comment made sense. 

"What color car do you want, Temperance?" Mr. Martin asked.

The game turned out to be mindless--too much time to think--but pleasant enough. The spinner made a pleasant clicking sound that was almost a hum. They let her be the banker, and Temperance rapidly became absorbed in what little strategy the game offered and wagered money several times as the game offered opportunity. Mrs. Martin had warm cookies from dough she'd frozen, and all of them--even Temperance--laughed several times.

The kitchen table area, she had to admit, felt cozy, even if it wasn't the right kitchen, and she could almost pretend she was spending the night with friends. She wasn't very good at pretending, though.

Mr. Martin talked of getting up early to shovel before heading into the city to work, and Mrs. Martin talked about pot roast. By the time Temperance directed her little plastic car into the retirement area she had six little plastic stick children and one-point-two million dollars.

"I HATE YOU!" Kyle exploded. "Before you came _I_ always won. You're ruining _everything!!!_ " He flung the board away, swept the money from the table and pushed over Temperance's chair.

Her heart pounded as she lay on the floor for a moment, listening to his footsteps pound up the stairs and watching paper money waft to the floor. Mr. and Mrs. Martin exchanged a look and he went quietly up the stairs after Kyle.

"Temperance?" Mrs. Martin said quietly, kneeling beside her. "Are you all right?"

Temperance nodded, still stunned. She righted herself and silently began gathering game pieces and money, putting them back on the table and sorting them. This time when Mrs. Martin touched her arm, she did pull away.

"Temperance, honey, I'm so sorry. We've been working hard with Kyle for a long time, but he has a lot of problems. He's really _much_ better than he used to be."

Temperance's head shot up at that. This was him _better?_

Mrs. Martin nodded and tried to smile. "I know it's a difficult adjustment for you. It's an adjustment for him too, and we prepared him, but he's struggling with the changes. You haven't done anything wrong, and he had no right to do that. But it's going to be all right."

Still dazed, she stared for a moment, then resumed her search for game pieces.

"Temperance--"

"I understand, Mrs. Martin."

After the game was put away Temperance went upstairs, laid out clothes for school, repacked her backpack, and got ready for bed. She climbed into bed at 9:52, shivering while she waited for the sheets to warm up. She wished Mom or Dad was there to say good night and distracted herself by solving chemistry equations until she drifted to sleep.

When her alarm rang, she sat up before she could close her eyes again. She dressed quickly and crept downstairs to the living room. Ten minutes later, Mr. Martin came down the steps, yawning.

She stood up. "Mr. Martin? Could I help you shovel?"

He started slightly, but nodded with a slight smile. They put on winter gear and headed out the side door into the garage. He held out a wide push-broom to her. "You can come along behind me. This is one of those dry, fluffy snows. We should be done in no time."

***

There was a note on the table when she got home.

_"Kids, sorry about this, but Bob's father called and their heat went out. I'll be back as soon as I relight the pilot. There are oranges in the crisper." -M.M._

As soon as Temperance set the paper back down footsteps came out of nowhere, and Kyle, his straight, dark hair hanging nearly in his eyes, slammed into her. She fell sideways into the table and her thigh hit the corner sharply.

"Ow!"

"Your parents probably left you because they hated you as much as I do!" Kyle was a flurry of hands, striking at her, pulling her hair, scratching at her arms.

She tried to push him away, but he was barely connecting. He started kicking at her awkwardly, and her shin stung as one kick connected.

"Kyle! Mrs. Martin wants us to take our shoes off in the house!" she cried. Distract. She had to distract him, give him something else to think about. And if he actually took the shoes off, it would hurt less if he kept kicking her.

"You can't tell me what to do, stupid bitch! I hate you! I hate you!" His face was red and he was screaming.

Temperance moved her backpack so it was between them, and backed up slowly. "I'm not hurting you, Kyle. I'm going to my room to do homework." She turned and ran up the stairs.

"You always do homework! They like you better than me! Why do you have to be _good_ at everything? I hate you!"

He tackled her from behind, and her backpack slipped from her fingers, then she fell on it, her chin hitting her books. She pushed back at him and struggled to stand around the bulky pack. Kyle grabbed at her legs, pinching, coming closer and hitting at her again. She shoved the backpack ahead of her, clambered up, and practically rolled into her room. In almost one movement she turned and slammed the door shut.

"That's not _fair_ ," he screamed, slapping the door.

Temperance breathed heavily and her heart pounded in her chest as she braced her feet on the carpet and leaned against the door. It shook as he pounded against it, yelling. He rattled the doorknob, but she'd locked the door and was holding the knob tightly. It was quiet for a long moment, and she started to step back.

Then there was a huge thud and the door bowed in slightly. A pause, then again. Kyle was flinging his body against the door. It bowed each time at the force, and there were occasional cracks, like wood fiber snapping.

Temperance's heart pounded. She didn't think he could get in. Even if he did, it didn't seem likely he would do more than yell at her. Maybe hit her or kick her. He hadn't seemed very strong. Or very coordinated.

Mrs. Martin should be back soon. She tried to reassure herself with that thought.

She sat down with her back against the door. Every thump reverberated through her chest and skull. She opened a book with shaking hands. Forty-five minutes, 120 thumps, and a headache later, Mrs. Martin arrived home. Temperance had only read four pages of _Uncle Tom's Cabin_.

***

"We're really sorry, Temperance," Mrs. Martin said. "I didn't want to say anything until plans were made. I didn't want you to worry. Mrs. Dougherty should be here this afternoon around four to take you to your new home." 

_Not home._ The words echoed on repeat in Temperance's head, adamant and sharp. _Not home. There is no more home. It's never home._

Mrs. Martin reached toward Temperance's face, but Temperance pulled away before the woman could touch her. "Please understand. It's not you at all. You've done nothing wrong and you're a good girl. We really like you, sweetheart. It's just that Kyle was doing so well, but he's lost so much ground in just six weeks. I think he sees you as a rival for our love, a threat to his security. I wish we could have you both stay."

Temperance felt tiny contractions of muscles and glands in her face and eyes, the swelling as her nasal passages and throat expanded, the tightness in her chest and stomach--all the same physical responses she'd felt the afternoon and evening her parents hadn't come home, the days the police had searched, the morning she'd watched Russ drive away--and she tipped her chin up. She couldn't prevent the breath she drew from shuddering its way past the thickness in her throat, but she did speak evenly as she looked just past Mrs. Martin's left ear.

"Of course. Kyle was here first, so he should get to stay. I'll pack my belongings and make sure not to inconvenience anyone or be in the way."

"Temperance," Mrs. Martin reached for her and Temperance stepped sharply aside. "You are a lovely young lady. I don't want you to feel--"

"Will I be allowed to continue attending this school or will I have to transfer again?"

"I don't know. I'm sorry." Now Mrs. Martin's voice sounded heavy with tears. Temperance didn't know what she had to cry about.

"May I go to my room, please?" She looked across the room at the floor, every muscle tense as if it was all that could hold her together. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Mrs. Martin bite her lip.

"Go ahead. Just remember--"

Temperance paused on the first step. Her fingers trembled on the banister.

"--we're here if you need any...thing."

The voice faded behind her as Temperance fled up the stairs and gently closed the door to her room...what had been her room...and leaned her forehead against the painted wood. She allowed herself to cry silently for three minutes: one for Mom, one for Dad, one for Russ. Then she checked her watch, got to her feet, and began to gather her things.

***  
***


	3. Athiest in a Foxhole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Temperance is moved to a new foster home. There are four children, and the family is deeply religious.

~March 1992~

Mrs. Dougherty's car smelled musty, like she'd spilled something and it had mildewed. At least on this trip Temperance wasn't stuck in the back seat like a small child or a prisoner, but she was no less powerless. She stared out the side window and tried not to fidget with the fringe on her mother's scarf.

"I'm sure things will be fine with the Davises, Temperance. Transitions can be hard at first, but you're smart, and you've had more time to adjust now."

Temperance wondered how Mrs. Dougherty could be a social worker when she clearly didn't understand people. Russ had known by the time he was nine or ten that his little sister found change unsettling. Before she'd started kindergarten, he'd told her all about their school and its layout. He'd drawn the hallways and classrooms with sidewalk chalk on their front walk and let her write labels on everything. Then he'd warned her not to show off how much she could read and write to the other kids. She'd tried, but from her first week of school it had seemed her peers--at the ripe age of five--had understood how different she was and had used it against her.

Mrs. Dougherty clearly thought Temperance was being difficult, maladaptive, deliberately eschewing interaction. Mrs. Dougherty didn't understand. She was going on as if socialization were as easy as algebraic order of operations. "--always helps to show your interest and share things in conversation. Mrs. Martin said you rarely interacted with the family and that she'd hoped when you'd settled you'd come out of your shell like she's seen other children do."

Temperance felt her lip curl at the suggestion, yet again, that she was a child, and at the implication that she _could_ have interacted when Kyle was rampaging. Then she processed the rest of the statement. "Mr. and Mrs. Martin have had other foster children?"

"Of course." Mrs. Dougherty turned to Temperance, frowning. "They've had at least a dozen children in and out of their home. Kyle has stayed the longest; he's been with them for six years."

"Kyle is a foster child?" Temperance stared at Mrs. Dougherty.

"Well, if he were available for adoption, I doubt he would be; the Martins have been assuring him for years that they would never let him go unless there was a legal mandate. ...You didn't know?"

Temperance shook her head.

"Huh."

Muscles tensed across Temperance's forehead. What else had she failed to observe? What else had she missed? Another fear struck, and her stomach dropped. "Will I be able to stay at Addison Trail?"

"Yes. We were lucky to find a placement in the same district."

Relief spread through her, so strong that she leaned back as her shoulders dropped.

Another glance came her way. "Temperance, if you are so concerned about your education, you need to work a little more at fitting into this home. Based on Mrs. Martin's comments, you're clean and polite enough, but very distant. You might want to try to be more involved at the Davis's. Open up a little, participate in family life, maybe make friends."

Temperance almost laughed. This woman said it like it was so easy, so natural. She really had no idea...and she was still talking.

"--live a little farther from the school and have five children."

"Five?" Temperance heard her voice almost squeak. She sounded like Maria in _The Sound of Music_ when she'd found out she'd be governess for seven. Temperance had watched the movie with Mom every year, the two of them singing along to "My Favorite Things," but she'd always felt sorry for the kids--especially the little ones--whose mother was dead. The idea that she'd ever be anything like them had never crossed her mind.

Not that Mom was dead. She refused to consider that possibility--was something she'd never truly worried about, never planned for. That had clearly been a mistake, not planning.

Dimly she heard Mrs. Dougherty list the children's ages as two, five, seven, twelve, and "sixteen, just like you."

"I'm fifteen."

"Right. Right. Sorry. But you'll be sixteen soon."

"Are these children all foster children too, then?" she asked, determined not to repeat her mistake.

"Oh, no. They're all Davises. And...here we are."

They turned into the driveway of a well-shaded brick house. Another split-level, but this one better kept up. There was a snow-covered swing-set visible in the backyard. Mrs. Dougherty parked.

"You're a good kid, Temperance. Remember what I said. And see if you can't try to smile some. You'll feel happier when you smile." She swung open the door, letting in a blast of biting cold air. "Well, come on. Let's get you introduced."

Before the door was opened, Temperance forced her face into a smile. It did not make her feel happier.

Mr. Davis greeted her with a hearty handshake and voice. "Welcome to our home, Temperance. We all hope you will be blessed by your stay here."

She wasn't sure exactly what he meant; she had never heard anyone say anything quite like that. "Thank you, sir," she responded. Her voice sounded timid to her ears. She didn't like sounding like that. She caught Mrs. Dougherty looking at her, pointing to her own lips, and realized she'd let the smile slip. She plastered one back on. Her cheeks already ached.

As Mr. Davis explained that they were nearly ready for dinner and introduced the children, Temperance reflected that Mrs. Dougherty's smile always looked as awkward and forced as hers now felt. She wondered why she thought that about the social worker's smile; she'd always known and been told she wasn't particularly adept at reading expressions, but she had a strong feeling about this. She had no evidence of it, no concrete description of what seemed...wrong, and it seemed an unfair judgment.

Mrs. Dougherty stayed until Temperance's belongings were settled into the room she would share with twelve-year-old Sarah and seven-year-old Lydia. It was a relief when she left and the feeling of being evaluated left with her.

A small hand tugged at hers.

"Mama says it's dinner."

She blinked at the little boy. He pulled harder.

"Mama says come eat now!"

This time she smile without effort and let herself be led to the table.

"You sit here." The boy--Joseph--patted the chair. "Next to me," he added, grinning at her then climbing into a chair with a booster.

The food had already been served, and Temperance placed her napkin on her lap and picked up her fork.

A little hand stopped her again. "Not yet. Gotta pray first."

She looked around and saw the rest of the family staring at her. She set her fork back down and folded her hands in her lap.

Mr. Davis's voice was quiet and deep. "John, would you offer grace?" He inclined his head toward the lanky teenager at the other end of the table.

John's voice was not as deep as his father's yet, but he spoke with certainty. "Our dear Lord, we thank you for the abundance you bless us with daily, and for the love and effort that went into preparing this meal. Bless this food to the nourishment of our bodies, and in Jesus's name we pray, amen."

This time Temperance waited until the others took bites of the food before she picked up her fork and began to twirl her spaghetti.

"So, Temperance, tell us about yourself," Mrs. Davis said.

"All right." She swallowed carefully, Mrs. Dougherty's words echoing in her mind. "Um...what would you like to know?"

"Well, do you have any hobbies?"

"I enjoy reading. And learning, especially about all areas of science. I'm taking physics right now. And I enjoy participating in the state history and science competitions."

"That's a lot of science," Sarah said.

Temperance wanted to duck her head and just nod. This much attention focused on her was immensely uncomfortable, but she wanted to stay in one school at least until the end of the year, so she was going to try to talk, to share things. "My dad was a science teacher. I did my first experiments with him."

"Where is he now?" Lydia asked. "Did he die?"

Temperance froze, a forkful of green beans halfway to her mouth. The breath she'd been taking almost choked her, and she couldn't take her eyes off of Lydia--little green-eyed, curly-haired, seven-year-old Lydia--sitting at a table with her whole family, picking at pasta as if her question carried no weight. Temperance decided she was grateful the little girl's attention had returned to food, but she found she couldn't shape, let alone speak, words.

"Lydia, honey," Mrs. Davis whispered, "Temperance's parents disappeared, and she doesn't know the answer to that question. It's probably painful to talk about. Let's let her talk about her parents if she wants but not ask anything more, okay?"

"Okay," Lydia said. "I'm sorry, Temperance."

The metal fork handle dug into Temperance's fingers where she'd gripped it so hard, and her cheeks burned with embarrassment at being the topic of casual dinner conversation. This was why she didn't talk about herself. "It's all right," she mumbled. At least they would move on to talk about other things now.

"So," Mr. Davis said, "Temperance is an unusual name. Surely your parents chose it for a specific reason."

So much for not talking about her parents, but at least this was safer ground. "I don't think they ever explained their choice." _And now I may never know,_ she realized suddenly. Her throat tightened in a far-too-familiar way. Not such a safe topic after all.

"I would have thought you came from a religious family."

She shook her head. "My family is not religious.

He frowned and took a drink of his water. "Your parents didn't bring you up knowing God?"

He had the look of someone to whom she'd given offense. At least she'd learned to recognize _that_ look. "Well, when I was twelve, I expressed interest in religion and why and what people believe, so Dad and I visited various sites of religious veneration."

Everyone at the table was staring at her. It was uncomfortable, but maybe they were just confused. Mom and Russ always told her she needed to slow down and give examples, that not everyone could follow her mental leaps. She took a deep breath and continued. "We went to Holy Name Cathedral for Mass, and the Hindu and Buddhist Temples--"

"Idolatrous," Mr. Davis muttered.

"I'm sorry?"

"Idols are statues of false gods," Joseph said helpfully.

"I know they're statues, but I know that the believers we met wouldn’t consider their gods 'false.' Anyway, the statuary is symbolic, decorative, often quite beautiful, and people don't specifically worship them." She looked around the table and saw slack jaws and wide eyes. Mr. Davis's hand hit the table, making his fork hit his plate and his glass rattle. "There is no statuary at the Bahá'í House of Worship," she added, hearing her voice trail off.

"You begged your father for access to worship, and he took you to these...heretics?" Mr. Davis's face was growing red.

"Paul, it's the girl's first night here," Mrs. Davis whispered.

"Actually, the believers we spoke to wouldn't be heretics unless they were to believe against their own faiths. Do you adhere to Christianity?"

"Of course," Sarah said from across the table.

"I'm very interested to witness the rituals you observe in practicing your faith." Maybe this interest would make a good impression.

"We do not engage in 'ritual' at our church, not like the heathens your father showed you." Mr. Davis spoke with his teeth clenched, and it made Temperance even more uncomfortable. "It's shameful that you've been denied the opportunity of righteous worship and kept away from the truth for so long."

"But this is a matter of faith, not fact--"

"Finish your dinner, Temperance," he said shortly. "We need to clean up and get to bed. We'll leave at eight tomorrow for Sunday School. I thank God your parents left, and He guided you to a God-fearing household."

The air rushed out of her lungs, and for a moment she couldn't even gasp for breath. He thought it was good, was _thankful_ that her parents were...for whatever had happened to them, thought it was the work of his God that she was alone. The rest of the meal was eaten in silence, with Temperance only picking at tiny bites of the now-tasteless food as her stomach twisted. She blinked back tears and wondered how she could have prevented the conversation from going so horribly wrong.

***  
 **Digging In**  
***

"Temperance Brennan," the teacher intoned.

A student called out, "She's not here, Ms. Anderson."

Temperance sighed. "Yes I am." The teacher didn't look up, so Temperance swallowed and spoke again. "Mrs. Anderson. I'm here."

Mrs. Anderson peered over her glasses, frowning. "Billy, why'd you say she wasn't?"

He shrugged. "Wasn't on the bus."

Temperance dug in her backpack for her textbook and folder, opened the book, and removed her homework. She began to review the chapter's vocabulary and dialogues... _carte, restaurant, serveur, manger, chocolat_. The repetition was soothing.

At the end of class Billy asked, "You gonna be on the bus this afternoon?"

Temperance looked at her bookbag as she repacked her books. "No."

"Why not?"

She didn't look at him. "I don't want to discuss it."

"You don't have to be like that. I'm just trying to be friendly, you know."

She _didn't_ know that and wasn't sure if he was gathering information so he could be a talebearer for his back-of-the-bus friends. She remained quiet.

"Fine." He walked away, backpack slung over one shoulder.

Temperance headed for her next class, weaving through the sea of students. She wondered what would happen to the little girl on her old bus. Would she be subjected to the upperclassmen's cruel taunts now that Temperance was no longer there?

At least the new bus driver didn't yell as much as the other one had. Sarah had warned her before they boarded that the popular kids sat by the windows in the back half of the bus. A few kids had stared at her when she got on with John and Sarah, but they'd gone back to their conversations when she and Sarah had sat together a couple of seats from the front. Temperance had managed to smile a thank you at the girl Mrs. Dougherty had called her "foster sister."

Remembering that moment, Temperance wondered if there were special guidelines for how one was act toward a younger sibling. She used to be the younger sibling, but had never had one. It had always been the four of them. Balanced. Two male, two female, two adults, two children. Even numbers.

Now it was just her, just one.

She shook her head again and went into her physics class, sitting in the same seat she'd occupied for the past four weeks. It was reassuring at least to be able to stay in this school and classes. This last period before lunch distracted her and held her attention, its complexity chasing away thoughts of what she couldn't change.

After physics she stayed to ask the teacher about her extrapolation of how to compute energy loss in an open system. By the time she made it to the lunchroom, her usual table against the wall was occupied, so she chose the only empty table she saw. As she idly retrieved the paper bag Mrs. Davis had asked her to bring back home--to the house; not home, Temperance reminded herself--she ran through the principles of energy transfer in wave formation in her head.

"Oh, my God, I was so mortified. She got on _our_ bus this morning, and I was so afraid she'd _sit by me_. She is _such_ a total _freak_."

"No kidding. At least she sat with that Jesus freak and not one of us."

Temperance's spine stiffened, and heat rose to her cheeks. She took a bite of her bologna sandwich and chewed. It was like chewing cardboard, like swallowing paper. She reminded herself to breathe; they might not be talking about her this time.

"What was she doing on your bus anyway? She's usually on mine, and I made a fool of myself saying she was absent this morning."

Billy. Definitely about her then.

"Don't know. Foster-freak must have gotten kicked out. I mean, her own parents dumped her. Can you imagine someone else wanting her to stick around?"

Temperance bit her lip, hard. Her parents had _not_ left. Not on purpose. Not like Russ. Whatever had happened, her mother and father would never have left her or Russ behind. They never, ever would have. Not if they had a choice. She took another bit of the sandwich, chewing mechanically. That was a rule for siblings: don't leave younger siblings behind.

"Well, the foster-freak is with the Jesus-freaks now. Seems about fair to me. Course, they're probably just trying to win brownie points for Heaven or something."

She did twenty-seven and a half circuits in P.E. that day, letting her body rather than her mind drive her heart rate up. She decided to finish thirty circuits by Friday, the last day of the unit.

***

Thursday was her day to help cook dinner. She was peeling potatoes and carrots and watched as the peeler lifted a curl of carrot from the surface of the vegetable, revealing glistening orange. Lydia sidled up to her, the little girl's orange curls gleaming like the carrots but reaching only a little above Temperance's elbow.

"You're good at this," Lydia said. "I always miss parts."

"Well, I'm older than you, so I've had more practice. I helped my mom with--" The memory of Christine Brennan's arm around her shoulders, her mom's forehead against hers, the hum and warmth of the whispered _"I love you so much. My best girl."_ that accompanied a good night kiss...it all hit her with an almost physical force. She peeled faster, her breath shallow. "I cooked at my house, too."

"You look sad."

Temperance blinked, swallowed, and looked at Lydia. She forced a smile, like Mrs. Dougherty had said she should. "Would you like to help, Lydia? You can put these peels in the garbage while I slice the carrots."

"Awesome!" She scooped up the peels in both hands so they dangled Medusa-like from between her fingers. She giggled. "They tickle!"

"Temperance?"

"Yes?" She glanced over her shoulder.

John looked away. "Mom told me you might be able to help me with my math after dinner." He pulled plates from the cupboard, then counted silverware from the drawer. "And Sarah was hoping you'd proofread her report, but she was kind of afraid to ask."

"All right. Maybe once I'm done with the vegetables we can go over your math. But I still have literature and physics to do, too."

Lydia skipped back over. "What else can I do?"

"You can be careful!" Temperance bit back her own sharp words. "I mean I'm using a knife and it's not safe to bump my arm, okay?"

"Mm-hmm." Lydia nodded solemnly. "Promise I won't do it again."

"In just a second, I'll have potato peels for you," she promised.

An hour and a half later, after twenty pre-calc questions, dinner, fixing commas and spelling on a report on Stonehenge along with correcting Sarah's understanding of the astronomical and religious uses of the stone circle, Temperance felt her shoulders sag. She had to get started on her homework; it was already seven-thirty.

"Tempance! Tempance!" The little voice was accompanied by little hands tugging at the pant leg of her jeans.

She took a deep breath and forced herself to smile. "Hi, Rachel. Is it bedtime for you?"

"Uh-huh." The little girl nodded and her dark brown eyes looked extra wide under the fringe of her bangs. She pushed a book at Temperance. "Ni-ni book!"

"Rachel, honey, I have homework to do. Maybe tomorrow, okay?" She tried to take a step, but the hand still gripped her jeans.

"Tempance, weed ni-ni book! Weed ni-ni book! Pweese weed?"

She squatted down. "Did you already say goodnight to your mom and dad?"

Rachel nodded again.

"I really don't have a great deal of time. Is it a short book?"

The little girl held out the book. "Weed!"

Temperance took the book and the girl's hand then sighed. "Come on."

Temperance sat on the little toddler bed, and Rachel pulled a hand-stitched quilt up over both of them. Hugging a spotted, stuffed dog, the little girl tucked herself under Temperance’s arm.

From downstairs Mr. Davis called, "Joseph! It's bedtime. Say goodnight and head up."

Footsteps pounded up the stairs.

"Joseph sounds like an elephant running, doesn't he?" Temperance asked.

Rachel giggled. Joseph appeared at the door, and she pointed. "Ow-phant!" she proclaimed, giggling more.

Temperance translated, then added, "Do you want to hear the story too?"

"You're gonna read?" Joseph jumped next to her immediately, and the metal of the bed frame creaked. "I love stories!"

By the time the Rabbit met the Skin Horse, both children were burrowed into her sides and as warm as the book described the Rabbit's boy. Rachel sniffed when Rabbit was thrown away, and Joseph gasped, "He can't burn Rabbit!" They both ooohed and aahed as an angel made the stuffed Rabbit real. Temperance closed the book over their protests.

"Can't you read us one more?" Joseph wheedled.

"Maybe another night. It's bedtime now." Temperance ushered Joseph toward his big-boy bed, tucked the quilt around Rachel, and pulled up the other covers. Impulsively, she kissed both children on the forehead, then fled toward her room.

She almost ran headlong into Mrs. Davis.

"I was just coming to make sure their light was off."

"I'm sorry. I kept them up and--"

"No, Temperance, that was beautiful. Bless you."

Mrs. Davis reached toward her, but Temperance dodged away, pressing her back to the hallway wall. She thought Mrs. Davis's expression looked...unhappy or disappointed. "I...I have to finish my homework," she stammered.

Mrs. Davis smiled again. "Good night, Temperance."

She finished her reading just in time for Lydia's nine p.m. bedtime, then lay awake in the dark. She wondered if the book she'd read was right, if she had too many sharp edges or broke too easily to last or to be loved. She refused to cry, but she felt hollow and her skin ached with tightness. Her last thought before she slept was that she was no longer anyone's "best girl."

***

Temperance found it hard to keep track of the days, as the Davises went to church Sunday morning, Sunday night, and Wednesday night. They also took her to Friday night Teen Devotional with John and Sarah. The weeks bled together, marked only in her mind by her different school assignments and the increasing number of warmer days. But by late April, the routine was familiar enough that Temperance had done extra homework at school in preparation for Thursday grocery day.

Mrs. Davis parked their van, and Temperance unbuckled Rachel and Joseph. The kids climbed down and slipped their hands into Temperance's, holding on as they walked across the Aldi parking lot.

She reminded herself she didn't belong, that they'd be sending her away soon enough, or that her parents would be found and they would go home, or to a new house, assuming that one was gone. She pushed away the thoughts of the unfairness of all their belongings being confiscated because she hadn't been allowed to stay in the house. She should have been more secretive, argued better with Mrs. Dougherty and Officer Zukowski. She should have found a way.

"I wanna put in the quarter!"

Mrs. Davis held the coin just beyond his reach. "And what do you say?"

Joseph pulled himself onto his tiptoes, holding the shopping cart handle. "Pleeeeeaasse!?" He grabbed the quarter and pushed it into the slot. "Temperance, you finish it. Please?"

She nudged it in and the chain that connected their cart to the next one fell away. Joseph pulled the cart out and swung it around.

"Hold on, there, young man," Mrs. Davis said, handing Temperance the reusable shopping bags before settling Rachel into the seat and fastening the safety harness.

They made their way down the first aisle, filling the cart by turns. Mrs. Davis asked Temperance to get their milk while she collected boxes of cereals.

Temperance was ducking back through the plastic strips, two gallons in each hand, when she bumped into someone. "Excuse me," she murmured, setting the jugs in the cart.

"Temperance? Temperance Brennan?"

She turned toward the voice.

"It is you!" the voice continued. "You're Christine's daughter. Couldn't miss that with how much you look like her. And from all those pictures on her desk. That was a terrible thing, her and Matthew just disappearing like that, and at Christmas, too. You know, my older son had your father for Biology class--"

Her heart raced, and confusion rushed over her. "Who are you?" Temperance managed to whisper, squeezing the cart handle.

Mrs. Davis stepped in, holding out her hand. "I'm Patty Davis. Temperance is our foster daughter."

Temperance's cheeks flushed, and she looked away, fixing her eyes on the wheel of the cart and the granules of dirt, gravel, grass, and gum adhered to its surface.

"Oh, well, I'm Corinne Summers. Christine--Temperance's mother--and I worked together. Has anyone heard anything about her or Matthew? I saw the newspaper report that they were missing, and I wondered what had happened to their kids. I can't believe you ended up in foster care."

With everyone's attention on her, Temperance gripped the cart more tightly.

"What happened to your brother? Your mom talked about and bragged on Russ as much as she did you. I figured you'd be with him. But then, everything about it was odd, wasn't it? I wondered if maybe Matthew and Christine had to run away for some reason. There wasn't any money missing, not that anyone could see, but Christine was such a good bookkeeper, and some folks wondered if maybe--"

Temperance's world tilted abruptly. She couldn't tell if she was nauseated or dizzy or if the light frequencies and colors were pulsing around her. She clapped a hand over her mouth and ran.

It was probably thirty minutes later when Mrs. Davis got back to the van, and Temperance was leaning against the front tire, shielded from sight and hugging her knees.

"Temperance, I'm sorry that was so upsetting. Mrs. Summers was very apologetic. Would you mind getting the groceries into the back while I get the kids in?

Temperance nodded numbly and stood, still unsteady and not feeling like she could catch her breath, but no longer dizzy or disoriented. Corinne Summers might have apologized, but that didn't mean Temperance had to forgive her. Soon she had shoved the groceries into the van in the mismatched bags they brought with them each time, and Temperance settled into the front seat.

She pulled away when Mrs. Davis reached toward her, pressing against the door and staring out the side window all the way back to the house.

***  
 **Chain of Command**  
***

"You'll have to talk to Paul when he gets home." Mrs. Davis glanced over her shoulder, but continued expertly twisting dough into balls.

Temperance sniffed. "Why? Can't you just sign the permission slip?" The paper rustled as she let her hand drop to her side.

"Paul likes to do those, Temperance. That way he knows what everyone is doing at school, and he can keep up. He should be home in the next half hour, though. Could you read to the kids while I finish dinner? You're a huge help in the kitchen, but it's much easier without the little ones underfoot."

"All right."

She called the kids and they clambered onto the couch with two books each. She began to read, and Joseph pressed against one arm while Rachel ducked under her other elbow and snuggled against her. They always chose the same positions during story time.

Rachel's giggle vibrated through Temperance's chest as she read. " _Up_ went dogs. _Down_ came birds. _BANG_ went the guns. _Up_ went the black bag. And the robbers--"

"Fell down flat!" both kids chorused.

" _KER-CHOO!_ " Joseph added, pointing to the big red words.

Temperance smiled and read the last few pages. "Now, what do we learn from this book?"

"That something that's a problem can help sometimes!"

"And what does the book get wrong?"

"Horses don't stand up." Rachel shook her head.

"Not on two legs, right? And?"

"Animals don't have dinner at tables!"

"Very good. Do you want to read another one?"

"Fwog book, Tempance!"

"All right, but it has almost no words, so you have to tell the story."

They both nodded eagerly.

"Fwog. Scared turtle. Happy fwying fwog!"

"It's a super-hero frog! And that one has the TV remote!"

Temperance was warm and comfortably all over. The kids laughed and pointed, then laughed more as Temperance read the next book. "I dug up the gates. I dug up the garden of Mrs. Thwaites."

"Doggie make a _mess_ ," Rachel giggled.

This time, though, Temperance couldn't find the book to be simple childish amusement. She read slower and with less energy as the dog tried to please his master, only to be told he would be sent away, then saved at great risk by the dogs and master who had mocked him, despite his mistakes. Her breath came shallower as the dog fixed everything he'd broken, then was careful and allowed to be useful.

How could children's books break her defenses like this? Her cheeks burned, her throat was tight, and she wanted to shove the books and children away.

A car door slammed.

"Why don't you two put the books away. Dinner's almost ready."

"One more book, please? We didn't get to read about Mike Mulligan and Mary Ann!"

"We'll read it later, Joseph. Please help Rachel put the books back."

"Awww...."

"Your mom is going to want you to put the silverware on the table. You'd better hurry."

He frowned, then threw his arms around her neck. "You're the best reader ever, Temperance. I'm glad you're here."

She had to close her eyes and clench her teeth to fight back tears. The front door opened, closed, and she gathered her folder. "Mr. Davis?"

He hung his coat in the hall closet. "Good evening, Temperance."

"Good evening. I need you to sign this." She held out the permission form. "I'm doing the science fair, and in two weeks I'm going to Champaign-Urbana for the State Science Exposition and these are due--"

There was a loud cracking sound. Her head jerk sideways. Her lower jaw wrenched out of line. Her cheek stung, her eyes watered, and she tasted blood. The room tilted, blurred. She blinked hard and reached for her face.

"Temperance, in this house, family members ask _permission_. It is not your place to tell me what to do, or what you think you are going to do." He stepped around her and walked up the stairs.

Temperance stood entirely still. She could see the room again, but her entire jaw throbbed. _He hit me. Hit me. Over something for school._ She turned slowly, took two steps, then ran to her room. Lydia glanced up from her book as Temperance reached the door. Temperance spun around, shaking, feeling trapped. The bathroom door was shut. There was nowhere to go.

Then Mrs. Davis called that dinner was ready. _Dinner. Dinner at the table with the whole family. Sitting next to him._ Trembling, she descended, wondering what would happen if she didn't come to dinner. Wondering what would happen if she did.

***

Dinner proceeded as if nothing at all had happened. Afterward, it was her night for dishes. As Temperance submerged her hands in the hot, soapy water, swishing the hand-knitted dishcloth over each dish, her thoughts whirled. Her parents had never hit her, had never denied her a single education-related experience. Without them, without money or an income, she was going to need her grades and activities even more to go to college. But Dad wasn't here. Mom wasn't here. A voice in her head whispered, "What if they never come back?"

She rinsed the dishes in scalding water, letting the steam rise to surround her still-sore jaw and face, and tried to let the heat distract her.

How could Mr. Davis have hit her? If Dad knew.... Dad never let anyone lay a finger on her, made sure Russ never allowed it either. But Russ had abandoned her. She was alone.

Still, she needed her permission slip signed.

Mr. Davis had said he expected to be asked. It would make so much more sense for them just to tell her their expectations, to make rules for her to follow. But maybe he'd sign it if she said please. She stacked the last dinner pot, rinsed the sink and her hands, wiped off the counter and stove, and padded into the living room.

"Excuse me. Mr. Davis?"

"Just a moment, Temperance." He didn't look away from the television screen.

Mrs. Davis smiled at her, then looked back at her embroidery frame, counting threads with the tip of her needle.

After several minutes, the television showed a commercial. Temperance looked between the two and felt herself shifting from one foot to another. She decided that if he said no, she'd call her social worker...not that Mrs. Dougherty had proved particularly effective on any occasion since their meeting. This was important though: it was about school. Certainly Mrs. Dougherty would help her if the foster parents were being unreason--

"Yes, Temperance?"

She swallowed hard, stomach twisting as she anticipated his response. She hated him for making her beg. The muscles in her face twitched as she tried to push words past the unfairness of his demands, past the pride that made her want to march out of the house, slamming the door behind her. "Mr. Davis, could you please sign my permission slip so that I can go to the science expo? It's the week after next."

Certainly he wouldn't say no. She realized she didn't know her rights, but even if parents could deny children access to the science fair, certainly the state would allow full participation of its wards. He couldn't say no. Couldn't.

"What are you going to do?"

She had no idea why he was even asking. Mrs. Davis just smiled and nodded. Temperance remembered what she'd said about this being his way of keeping up with the kids, but it felt...humiliating. "I'm halfway through my project. I'm using various staining substances to determine which is best suited for revealing the detail of fossils on different types of rock surfaces."

Mr. Davis frowned, though she could not imagine what she could have said wrong. "How did you come up with this project idea?"

"My father...he and I discussed what I could do that dealt with archaeology." The familiar tightness in her chest returned. She didn't mean to say any more, but a whisper slipped out. "We were going to work on the project together."

"What a lovely tribute to his memory that you're going on with it," Mrs. Davis said. "I'm sure he'd be very proud."

Temperance felt herself blinking, could barely get her breath. "Is there something you've heard?"

"I'm sorry, dear?"

"Have you heard anything about my mom and dad? Are you not telling me?" She couldn't control the panic surging through her.

"Do not raise your voice to us, young lady," Mr. Davis said. His voice was low and steady, and Temperance stood entirely still again. "If we were to get news from the police, we would share that with you immediately, or have them talk to you themselves."

"But..." Temperance looked between the couple, then settled on Mrs. Davis. "You just said the project was a 'tribute' to his 'memory.' You were talking about Dad like he was dead!"

"I'm so sorry, dear. I just thought that was the most likely, given the information we got and the fact that there's been no news." Mrs. Davis's eyes were hard to look at. They were filled with sympathy or pity or concern, and the strength of that was uncomfortable.

"Mr. Davis, may I please attend the expo?" This was more familiar ground.

"Well, what're you going to do at this science expo?"

She blinked. "I...I'll present my findings to the judges, along with my presentation display showing what I've done, and submit my written work on the subject."

He held out his hand, and she reached out, relaxing her fingers from where they were crumpling the permission form. "I expect there will be transportation provided along with sufficient supervision?"

"The school always sends at least three teachers with us. And we'll be leaving at five am from the school parking lot."

Mr. Davis stopped after his first name, lifted his pen, and looked up at her.

Her cheeks felt on fire. He was waiting again, and she rewound the last few sentences to try to determine why. Certainly he wasn't wanting...maybe he _did_ mean for her to ask at each juncture. "I mean, may I meet the bus at school to go to the Expo?"

"How will you get there, dear?" Mrs. Davis asked.

"Um, could one of you please drive me to school early, or would I be allowed to stay over with another student who will be attending?" Temperance's stomach was tense but quivering. Why wouldn't they just tell her how to do this right?

"Well, I'd prefer you didn't stay over with a family we don't know. But I could drive you to the school by just leaving a touch early for work. Will it be a problem for you to miss your other classes?"

She shook her head. "I'm ahead in my work."

"Well, then it seems like it could be a beneficial experience." He finished signing his name. "Thank you for asking us appropriately, Temperance. I want to say that I also appreciate the role you're playing in our home and family, helping in the kitchen and with the younger children and the kids' schoolwork. Giving of yourself is the highest form of service."

Temperance didn't know what to say so she just nodded and took the permission form. She wasn't sure what was acceptable now, and she had homework to finish for Physics and the commercial break was over, so after Mr. and Mrs. Davis were silent for a moment, she turned to go.

"Good night, Temperance."

She fled up the stairs.

***  
 **Lobbing Grenades**  
***

"Temperance?"

She moved through the wave of departing students. "Yes, Mrs. Liang?"

"I wanted to comment on how impressed I am with your work. You're quick, have an excellent grasp of the concepts, and I appreciate that you still work hard. I suspect we are moving a bit slowly for you, though."

She smiled, and it felt...foreign. "That would be an accurate statement."

"We're always looking for students to join Math Team." Mrs. Liang smiled. "I was wondering if I could convince you."

Temperance remembered the competition she'd missed, how upset Jodi had been when Temperance had said she wasn't coming. Her heart raced in dread at the idea of another team counting on her. Her stomach turned at the idea of asking the Davises over and over for rides home and to competitions, for permission to go to practice and competitions.

"Temperance, is something wrong?" Mrs. Liang reached toward her, but Temperance stepped back.

She realized she was shaking her head. "I can't."

"Are you sure? You'd have no problem with the math, and it might be a good social opportunity for you."

Temperance groped for her backpack and the right words. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Liang, I can't. It was kind of you to think of me. I have to go."

Amongst the cacophony of the lunchroom, she chewed a chicken sandwich and wondered if this had been Mrs. Liang's way of telling her that she needed work on interpersonal skills. Perhaps she was indicating that she thought Temperance was bad with people. She wondered how something that should be a compliment could make her feel insulted. She finished her lunch and showed her hall pass to the monitor.

Mr. Krupa nodded to her as she slipped into the lab. She gathered her materials and began the process of staining various surfaces and recording the results. The visual results were becoming even more developed than her rubbings of the fossils and etchings, and a swell of pride reached around the emptiness of doing the work without her dad by her side.

***

Temperance looked around the auditorium at the simple wooden pews where the same hundred people held red song books and sang--some beautifully, some appallingly off-key--while Mrs. Davis played a battered piano for all three weekly services.

_Come, ye disconsolate  
Where'er ye languish....  
Fervently kneel..._

Despite the words of the song, no one knelt like the Catholics did at Mass. She was bored enough by the service to wonder why.

This church had none of the arches, rose window, vaulted ceilings, and traditional nave of Holy Name Cathedral. She and Dad had talked about the messages and beliefs of people at each place of worship they visited. After their visit to the Cathedral, they had both commented on how Cardinal Bernardin's lesson on the sanctity of human life had made generalizations, though they had agreed the priest had a kind face and smile. 

After every service, the Davises, like Dad had done, reviewed with the children what had been taught. An early discussion had focused on the importance of understanding the words being sung or said in church, and the need to say only exactly what one meant. Temperance had to admit that an expectation of memory of presentations and a focus on word meanings encouraged strong academic work, which could be good for the children.

Around the third service she had attended with the Davises, Temperance had brought a book to read, but Mr. Davis would not allow what he called "such disrespectful behavior." Instead, they were to sit, sing, be still, and listen.

Her visit with Dad to the Hindu Temple had included none of those activities. They had gone for the celebration of Navarathri, and Temperance had been pulled into celebratory dances, laughing as she'd watched Dad trying to keep up with the noisy, colorful joyousness. Shortly after that, they had merely toured the Bahá'í House of Worship. She had marvelled at the intricacy of the carvings inside and outside the nine-sided structure and Dad had pointed out the symbols of various faiths on the pillars.

This Sunday, Temperance looked around her. The building where the Davises worshiped, by contrast to most she had visited, was plain, almost homely. Despite the differences in structures and worship, Temperance saw similar expressions on people's faces as they prayed, sang, chanted, danced, or meditated. Dad had said it was a look of peace. These congregants sang of their conviction that a God was "a lamp unto their feet" and "there right beside" them. Instead of peace, Temperance felt nothing beside her but little Rachel and Joseph kicking their feet.

The preacher began speaking, and she twisted her hands, swallowed hard, and focused on identifying rhetorical devices Dad had taught her about during political debates. The preacher talked about how each person had a different talent to offer, how different gifts and tasks were given to men and women. Temperance felt her lips twist wryly; she had avoided using her gifts on Math Team to avoid Mr. Davis's ire.

The preacher was speaking of a lost sheep and how a "good shepherd" left the flock to rescue that one. He said that, like all good fathers, God brought rest to his children, so were they able to comfort all others.

Dad wasn't here. Her father, he wasn't comforting her, wasn't seeking her out, even though she was lost like that sheep. She couldn't even go out and try to search for him and Mom, to be the one trying to comfort or rescue them.

And there was no one to rescue her. Temperance blinked rapidly. She didn't cry.

Suddenly everyone was standing for the final song. The melody the song book said was an old English lay swelled around her, the voices of the congregation falling into harmony on the fourth word.

_Abide with me; fast falls the eventide;  
The darkness deepens; Lord with me abide.  
When other helpers fail and comforts flee,  
Help of the helpless, O abide with me._

No comfort. Not from their God. Not from the other deities of other beliefs. Not from her family. Just that emptiness. Temperance wondered if her inability to feel the comfort or presence of their God stemmed from her lack of belief. As the music surrounded her, she felt only sound waves, no deity. Perhaps this God's faithful only comforted members of their flock, like the shepherd in the story. Whatever the reason, the song's haunting beauty only made her feel abandoned.

She lifted her chin. She would take care of herself.

After services, there was more waiting. Temperance stood against a wall and watched members of the congregation mill about, chatting. Children ran, giggled, and had crawling races under the pews, slowing at warning glares from adults. After half an hour, Mrs. Davis asked Temperance to help gather the children, as dinner would be ready soon.

They piled into the van, then the house, and then everyone except Mrs. Davis changed out of their church clothes and set the table. Soon they were seated and Lydia and little Rachel said the prayer together.

Joseph handed her mashed potatoes, and she spooned some next to her chuck roast then handed the bowl to Mr. Davis.

The spoon clinked against his plate. "So, Temperance. Did you learn anything from today's lesson?"

It had been inevitable, she supposed. After every church service Mr. Davis grilled someone on the content and message of the sermon, Bible passages, and class topics. She'd thought she might be exempt, but apparently not. "Yes, I did."

"That's very good. Tell us about it."

All the children's eyes were on her, and she briefly considered giving a simple answer. A polite answer. But Lydia's wide brown eyes met hers, and anger flared in her cheeks at how this girl's--and Sarah's, and Rachel's--future was framed by the preacher's rigid religiosity, his insistence that the shepherd and God and fathers had to rescue them because they were incapable. She liked these girls, these smart, funny, kind, talented girls who had welcomed and accepted her, and who were going to be pigeonholed into "women's work" by their family's irrational beliefs.

Her jaw tightened, and she looked Mr. Davis in the eyes. "I learned that Paul was a misogynist and highly controlling. I learned that the passages in Timothy demanding that wives be submissive are part of the underpinning of Western culture's bias against women and removing their agency and basic human rights. I learned that there are only three people of the eight at this table whom your holy text deems fully worthy. This is clearly a method of exerting societal control by claiming the edicts come from a deity, and that ill will befall those who don't comply."

Now it was his face that was bright red. "That is blasphemy," he declared.

She raised her chin, still meeting his gaze. "Only if I believed in your God. Since I don't, I am not blaspheming."

"It is blasphemous to us. I will not have such talk at my table."

Her lip curled. "You asked me! Did you really doubt what I would say?"

His voice was low, and his eyes narrowed. "I thought you might have learned your place after our conversation about asking permission."

"My _place?_ " She heard herself speaking more loudly. "You were enforcing control because I'm a _woman?_ "

"You are a _girl_ , and you are a _child_. You, and everyone else at this table, will respect my authority as the head of this household."

"Temperance, please," Mrs. Davis said softly.

Temperance paused. Took a breath. Blew it out. "Of course I respect your authority as a parental figure."

"And this is how you show it?"

"Paul, please. The children."

"No, Patty. They need to see how to respond to sacrilege."

Temperance sputtered. "Is that your self-righteous excuse? You are controlling! You expect your _adult_ wife to treat you as king of your domain based on outdated writings. Your daughters deserve better than this. They deserve to be fully independent and autonomous, using their talents in the best way possible like your parable says." She considered, then added, "Well...if they marry, or date men, that is."

Mr. Davis slammed his palms on the table, shoved his chair back and stood. "Patty! This was _your_ idea of mission service. What kind of influence have you brought into my house in front of my children?"

Temperance felt her anger narrow to a fine point of white fury aimed at him. " _Your_ children? _Your_ house? They are her children too...possibly more so since she gestated and birthed them. And how is this not your _family's_ house? Are you really that egotistical that you would claim _ownership_ of other people?"

"Look at what you've done!" Mr. Davis pointed, and Temperance surveyed the table.

John was frozen, glass in hand. Sarah stared at her plate, hands in her lap. Lydia, Joseph, and Rachel were crying.

Temperance quivered with rage. Joseph tugged at her sleeve. "Temperance, please don't be mad," he whispered. She still trembled, but as she looked at the quivering chins, red cheeks, and creased foreheads around the table, her shoulders sagged.

There was a scrape as Mr. Davis picked up her plate. "Leave our table, Temperance. Your parents may have allowed this kind of impertinence, but I am a responsible father and you will not teach such disrespect to my children."

Temperance stood, her height letting her look him directly in the eyes for a moment before she walked away, gritting her teeth to avoid saying more in her anger. The way the Davises used their own holy text to deny any legitimacy of not only other religious but the beliefs and practices of other Christians was enough to convince Temperance that peace amongst humans was a pretty fantasy.

She easily filled the afternoon with homework, using calculus theorems to do her physics even though it wasn't required, reading Emily Dickenson, and taking notes from the _Early Chicago_ book she'd borrowed from the library. She was researching the use of old Indian trails for Chicago's diagonal streets--her topic for her History Fair paper.

"Temperance?"

She looked up. Sarah was peeking through a crack in the bedroom door. She smiled at the girl and gestured for her to come in. Sarah opened the door and took a single step inside.

"Daddy says to tell you it's time to leave for evening services."

Temperance nodded, though she rebelled inwardly against sitting and listening to another message like that morning's. It had been made clear, from the first time she had suggested that she would prefer to stay home, that church attendance was non-negotiable in this household.

Sarah turned to leave.

"Sarah? I'm sorry I ruined lunch."

"It's all right. Daddy explained that you are battling your upbringing, that good and evil are warring for your soul." She smiled and put a hand on Temperance's shoulder. "We know that sometimes you can't help it. We all prayed for you."

Temperance stared.

Sarah threw her arms around Temperance's neck. "I hope good wins for you. I like you. I'm glad you live here now." She let go. "Are you ready?"

Temperance nodded, unable to find words. Sarah smiled and skipped out the door. Temperance stacked her books neatly, then followed, empty-handed.

***  
 **Don't Ask, Don't Tell**  
***

For the first time since she arrived, there was art homework to do that Friday. Temperance was fascinated by this unit's focus on the concepts of silhouettes and negative space. All the way home on the bus she had contemplated the ramifications of these art concepts on her staining project while simultaneously planning the three drawings using negative space--and their figure-ground reversals--that she would do this weekend.

After she hung her jacket in the front closet, Temperance went straight to her room and sketched images she could enlarge into the assignment.

She wouldn't have believed it if someone had said to her that a pencil had drawn itself across the page, but she barely recognized what she was doing. There on the page, emerging from the scratching of her graphite pencil, was the shape of a car driving away.

Tears sprang to her eyes as she remembered Russ glancing back at her just once before he'd been gone and she'd been alone. She turned to a new sheet in her sketchbook and filled the page with a skeleton, drawn from memory--forcing her thoughts away from the past and directing them into the future.

A future that would revolve around science rather than emotion.

She was coloring in the bone shapes when Sarah came into the room. "Temperance? It's time to leave for devotional."

"All right." But she kept coloring.

Sarah stood so near Temperance could feel the warmth where their legs almost touched. "What are you doing?" the girl asked.

"Art homework. I'm almost done."

Sarah squirmed. "We shouldn't keep daddy waiting."

Temperance stared at her work and her pencil slowed. Nodding, she set her sketchbook aside then followed Sarah.

Once everyone got to the youth minister's house, the teenagers began "devo" with sharing of needs and a prayer circle. Temperance remained mostly silent at these gatherings, but John or Sarah never failed to make sure prayers were said for Temperance's parents to be found safely, and she was both touched and annoyed. If there were some all-powerful deity, it certainly wasn't responding to the group request. Still, she recognized that it was kindness that drove John and Sarah, even though she was uncomfortable with them revealing her situation.

Tonight was no different, and teenagers asked for prayers for their friends, for sick family, for fighting parents, for help on tests. Temperance clenched her jaw to stop herself from pointing out that, instead of asking for divine intervention, the girl should try studying.

These beliefs made no sense to her. Clear, scientific theory and fact explained the material world. These teens and the Davises found comfort in the idea that someone or something was in charge, and that they could ask that entity for things. But their prayer was a simple demonstration of the validity of operant conditioning with variable reinforcement. Temperance derived comfort from knowledge, but these teens' actions were based not on knowledge. Their avoidance of knowledge was a displacement of responsibility, their faith akin to a belief in magic or superpowers.

"And I want us to pray not only for Temperance's parents, but for her to overcome her barriers to belief."

Sarah's comment snapped her out of her reverie, and Temperance frowned.

Sarah, next to her on the floor, had turned so she was looking Temperance straight in the eyes. Temperance found she couldn't look away as Sarah spoke. "I'm sorry, Temperance, but I don't want to see you fight with my dad anymore, or say that God isn't real. He's here, with us all, and He loves you. We love you too, and you're...well, you're incredible." Sarah took Temperance's hand in both of hers. "I want to see you in Heaven when I get there."

Temperance blinked. "Excuse me?"

John, who rarely said anything directly to her, spoke up. "Jesus died for you. Just like he did for all of us. Your disbelief spits in his face, devalues his sacrifice. But, more important, it puts your soul at risk. I've seen you with Joseph and Rachel. I know you have a kind heart, but it is often hidden behind your pride. If you're not careful, that'll be your downfall."

The group's young leader, Dan, held out a hand, and everyone turned toward him. His red hair was neatly combed to the side, and his equally-young wife held his other hand. It was their small house where everyone gathered and sat on the floor or crowed onto the mismatched furniture each week. Dan said, "If no one else has anything to add, let's begin our prayer."

The teens bowed their heads. Some folded their hands, and some raised palms toward the ceiling. Temperance's face was still heated, and she sat motionless against the sofa.

Dan's voice rumbled richly as he began, "Our most kind and loving Father, we come to you through Jesus your Son with these concerns heavy on our minds and hearts. We hope first that you will help Temperance come to accept your presence and your Word, that you will open her heart so she may hear and feel your love for her."

It was Ruth, the girl sitting next to her, who touched Temperance first. Temperance tried to shrug away the arm Ruth slung around her shoulders, but she couldn't with Sarah holding her hand.

Sarah shifted to face Temperance so they were knee-to-knee sitting cross-legged. Sarah took Temperance's other hand and brought both up to her own bowed forehead. Temperance tried to tug away, but Sarah held tight.

Temperance was squirming, trying to slip away. Then John scooted nearer and laid a hand on her knee. Lucas and Debbie, sitting on the sofa behind her and Sarah, put their hands on her head. She couldn't move without moving one of them.

She looked from one to the next as their lips moved under their tightly-closed eyes. Her heart pounded, and she began to shake. If she didn't make a scene, she couldn't get away. Mr. Davis had made it clear that church activities required perfect behavior. If she defied him, he might hit her again. He might have her removed from the Davis home. She could end up anywhere, in any school.

Her breathing grew shallow and she fought a desperate urge to shove the teens' hands away. To elbow, kick, fight her way free.

Dan was still speaking, and she could hear little murmurs from the teens. "Please give her the strength and humility to overcome her prideful self-reliance and accept the help and support that we and others stand ready to offer. Help her to accept that thinking too highly of her own capabilities will only drive others away and leave her lonely."

They thought she was the cause of her own loneliness.

At that, tears pricked at her eyes again. She tried to wriggle away, but there were too many kids. Too many, too close.

There was nowhere to go.

"Stop." She whispered, but Sarah gripped her hands more tightly, and the others shifted even closer. She was trapped against the couch.

John patted her knee and squeezed it tighter, "Lord, please help Temperance to cast aside her resistance to your love and forgiveness. Help her to open her heart to the beauty of your all-encompassing joy that she may know that joy. Help her to overcome her disbelief and find faith in more than that which she can see and measure."

"Dearest Lord," Sarah joined in, "I beg you to show Temperance the way to a relationship with you and to let her see the truth that you are the one true God of the universe. Help her see the love and truths my parents are offering her, and to see that we all love her and want her to be saved and happy." Sarah kissed the fingers on both of Temperance's hands and held them to her damp cheeks.

"Stop. Please stop," Temperance begged, though her voice came out only as a whimper. There was nowhere to go, and she was crying. She wanted to go. She wanted to be where no one would see her. Where no one would touch her. Her shoulders shuddered with her ragged breaths.

"God, show Temperance how lucky she is that the Davises took her in when she was but an orphan in the world. Help her repay that generosity by responding to the opportunity to for her soul to be saved." Mark's voice, pompous and self-righteous as it always was. "Help her to see that heathen beliefs are wrong in your sight."

Matt laid a hand on her other knee, and although she shrank back, he patted it, saying, "Help us to show Temperance that she is loved and welcomed here."

"Please let these tears be a sign that your grace is doing its work in Temperance's life and heart," Ruth said.

They continued with prayers for other issues, and Temperance's muscles ached with stored tension. She wished she believed, or believed at least in invisibility, or some kind of ability to wish herself somewhere else. She continued shaking and crying, gasping for air and breathing through her mouth to try and avoid all-out sobs.

They continued with prayers for other issues, but Temperance barely heard a word. She drew her legs up and wrapped her arms around them, curling into herself while she fought for control. But she couldn't stop shaking, and her breath came in short, harsh gasps despite her best efforts.

She just wanted it to be over.

Please. Just let it be over.

"We hope this is only the beginning of Temperance's walk with you." The youth leader had finally picked up the prayer and, after a pat or squeeze, the other teens let go of her, except for Sarah. "We lay all these things in your hands, in the name of your son Jesus, through whom we pray, amen."

"Amen" echoed around the room.

Sarah released Temperance's hands and flung her arms around her neck. "I love you, Temperance."

Temperance stared though tears at all the expectant faces, then leapt to her feet and fled the room. In the bathroom she locked the door and let the water run while she sat on the toilet, holding a cold washcloth to her eyes as she sobbed in a way she hadn't in all the months since her parents had not come home.

When the sobs quieted, her face was swollen, her eyes dry and scratchy, and her head ached. Her watch told her they'd been at the devotional for over an hour, which meant that it should be nearly over...or, at least, it should be snack time.

When she turned off the water's sound camouflage, she heard singing and waited, eyes closed, breathing deep and slow in measured breaths.

The group stopped singing, and there was silence for a couple of minutes, then the clusters of people chatting and snacking. Temperance flushed the toilet and walked back out. She kept quiet and to the side, smiling a small, fragile-feeling smile at each person who greeted her. She was surprised--but grateful--that they didn't make a fuss over her or call attention to her previous display.

She ate a brownie that Ruth had baked, drank a small cup of 7-Up, and accepted goodbye hugs from two of them when Mr. Davis arrived to get them.

"Daddy! Daddy, you won't believe what happened!" Sarah enthused as they climbed into the car. "At devo tonight we prayed for Temperance and laid hands on her, and she was filled with the Lord!"

"Is that so?"

"She shook and cried and everything!"

Temperance cringed.

"I think God and the Spirit started working in her tonight," John said. His voice was steady and calm again.

Mr. Davis caught Temperance's eye in the rear view mirror. She met his gaze steadily until he looked away. When they got home John and Sarah headed to their rooms, but Temperance stayed in the entry way with Mr. Davis. He looked tired.

After a long moment where they stared at each other, Mr. Davis said, "I appreciate that you didn't argue with John and Sarah in the car."

"What good would it do? They believe it, and it makes them happy."

Mr. Davis nodded. "Still, it's unlike you not to correct a misunderstanding."

He thought she was prideful too. And, apparently, insensitive as well. "Mr. Davis, I'm grateful your family has made a place for me. But we both know that I'll never fit, and you'll never be able to accept me." She trembled, but took a careful breath, hoping to steady her voice. "May I ask you...please, sir, could you not send me away until the end of the school year? I'll try to keep silent, try not to disrupt your lives, but I need to do well in school, and--"

"Yes, Temperance. Of course you can. You're welcome to stay with us as long as you have need. We won't give up hope that you'll seek the truth in earnest." He rested a hand on her shoulder for a moment, then walked away.

***

Temperance stared at the fried-egg poster emblazoned with "This is Your Brain on Drugs" that hung on the bulletin board. Mrs. Dougherty shared the office with the school nurse and psychologist. It was drab, the furniture was battered, and it smelled of antiseptic.

"I think you're making a mistake. The Davises are good people."

Temperance's lip curled as it always did when Mrs. Dougherty spoke to her. The woman was condescending.

"They do care about you. I don't think it's in your best interests to move again." Mrs. Dougherty leaned forward. "Are you sure about this?"

"Yes." Keeping her answers short seemed to reduce the length of these meetings.

"I'll start looking then. But, Temperance, you really need to try and fit in somewhere--"

"I don't fit in here! They...they want to brainwash me into believing in imaginary beings."

The social worker's head jerked up from the notes she was scribbling. "I beg your pardon?"

"They don't accept basic scientific fact. They insist that women should be 'in submission' to men, as if men are inherently wiser, more intelligent and more competent--"

"The Davises are devoutly religious, yes, but..." Mrs. Dougherty's legs were crossed, and she bounced the dangling foot rhythmically. When she continued, her tone was wary. "Temperance...you haven't been saying these things to them like this, have you?"

She stared at Mrs. Dougherty, who always seemed to have the same shape to her brown hair and always seemed to wear the same style suit and the same white blouse with a bow at the neck. The past three months flickered through her mind--being forced to go to church, being _expected_ to believe, the horror when she didn't. The children crying, begging her not to fight, Sarah worrying Temperance would go to hell, the teens laying hands on her. Being trapped, being yelled at and slapped and called blasphemous.

"They said I was insubordinate, that...they..." She sounded defensive. She knew she did. And it made her angry, because she’d meant to sound calm and assertive.

Mrs. Dougherty sighed. "Temperance, we talked about this last time. You have to interact with people, talk to them, and share with them. Part of that is accepting that different people believe different things--"

"I know that! My father and I visited various places of worship, but the Davises called that heretical and said I was going to hell if I didn't change myself." Temperance shifted in the plastic chair and wondered absently what comments her classmates would make about her latest "confidential" visit down here.

"Temperance," Mrs. Dougherty's voice softened and slowed. She still used Temperance's name too often and spoke with deliberation as if Temperance were a slow-witted young child. "Did you think maybe that was just their way of trying to help you learn to cope with different people, of guiding you into fitting into their family?"

Temperance shook her head. She was certain that wasn't what they'd been saying or doing, but she couldn't think of a way to express that, and Mrs. Dougherty seemed to have decided already that she wasn't trying hard enough to learn skills it seemed no one would explain.

"You may not see it, Temperance, but the Davises' affection for you is at the root of their desire to share their religion. Rejecting that out of hand--"

"I tried! I talked. I shared. You don't know how..." she trailed off as Mrs. Dougherty frowned. "You don't know," she whispered.

"I know it's hard. You've had a lot of change in a very short time." The woman laid a hand over Temperance's tightly-clasped ones on the desk. "That's one of the reasons I think you would do better staying in the same placement. At least it's familiar."

"Mr. Davis doesn't want me to stay."

Mrs. Dougherty's hand tightened around hers. "He hasn't said any such thing to me."

"He's humoring his wife, but he thinks I'm a bad influence." Temperance took a deep breath and mumbled, "Especially on the children."

"You're just bound and determined to see them as bad, aren't you?" Mrs. Dougherty tsked and shook her head.

Her head jerked up. "No!" It was the other way around. "I just...it's not working."

"Well, I'll talk to the Davises and get their perspective since they haven't come to me with any complaints. But, Temperance, you have to understand that nowhere you go will be like living with your own family was."

"I understand that," Temperance whispered, slipping her hands away from the woman's grasp.

Mrs. Dougherty's voice hardened slightly. "This will be your third placement in six months, you realize. There is no over-abundance of homes for teenagers, and the more often you move, the more difficult it will be to find a placement for you." She paused. "Temperance?"

Temperance's head felt heavy as she lifted it to look at Mrs. Dougherty.

"Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"Yes, ma'am," she replied, managing a tiny voice instead of a whisper.

"All right. Call me if you change your mind."

She didn't call.

For weeks after school let out Temperance pushed the little ones in the backyard swings and read to them, played board games with the others, and kept herself distant otherwise. She spent hours in her room tackling the textbooks and readings she'd assigned herself as summer learning projects.

It was in the fourth week of summer that Mrs. Davis told her Mrs. Dougherty had confirmed her move.

"We'll be sorry to see you go, Temperance," Mrs. Davis said, beginning to reach out and then dropping her hand as Temperance evaded her touch.

"Go??" wailed a voice behind them.

Temperance turned to see a stricken face with wide eyes. "Joseph, I'm sorry--"

"NO! No, you _can't!!_ " He turned and ran. "Lydia! Sarah! Tell Temperance she can't leave!"

"I'm sorry," Temperance said to Mrs. Davis. She closed her ears to Joseph's cries and walked quickly out of the house, picking up speed until she was jogging down the sidewalk. She ran for over two hours before she found herself, dripping in sweat and out of breath, back in front of the Davis's house, where only the porch light shone to greet her.

***  
***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Books Temperance read to the Davis children in chapter 3 include:  
> Heilbroner, Joan, & Eastman, P.D. _Robert the Rose Horse_.  
>  Perkins, Al. _The Digging-est Dog_.  
>  Wiesner, David. _Tuesday_ ("The fwog book").  
>  Williams, Margery. _The Velveteen Rabbit_.
> 
> Songs sung at the Davises' church:  
> ["Abide With Me, Fast Falls the Eventide"](http://www.hymnal.net/hymn.php/h/370) by Henry Francis Lyte/William Henry Monk (1847)  
> ["Come, Ye Disconsolate"](http://www.hymnal.net/hymn.php/h/684) by Thomas Moore/Samuel Webbe (1816)  
> ["Thy Word (is a Lamp Unto My Feet)"](http://www.last.fm/music/Amy+Grant/_/Thy+Word) by [Amy Grant/Michael W. Smith](http://www.lyricsfreak.com/a/amy+grant/thy+word_20007722.html) (1984)


	4. Into the Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The new foster family seems odd, demanding, then outright frightening, as Temperance tries to use school and knowledge as a shield.

**Into the Fire**

~July 1992~

The backs of Temperance's legs stuck to the vinyl seats of Mrs. Dougherty's tan Buick. The air coming through the open windows was oppressive, and strands of hair blew out of Temperance's ponytail and stuck to her forehead and cheeks. If she'd realized Mrs. Dougherty's car had no air conditioning, she'd have worn a bandana, but she settled for trying to wrap the wayward hair around a finger.

"You have to try harder to fit in with this family, Temperance." The car slowed and stopped well before the line for the stoplight. "And in the fall you'll be going to Burtonsville High instead of Addison Trail."

"Do they have AP--"

"I don't know. The Maxwells will be taking you to register on Monday, so you can work out your schedule then."

Temperance nodded. She leaned on her hand and stared at the distortion in light refraction as hot air rose from the pavement. She focused on the waves caused by the movement of the air as it cooled and re-heated, on the rattle of the loose exhaust system in the Buick, on the skin on her legs tugging. When she concentrated on these things right now, she didn't hear Joseph and Lydia crying, didn't see Rachel reaching to her from Sarah's arms, didn't feel little arms being pried from around her neck and leg, didn't see Mrs. Davis's watery eyes or John's disappointment, didn't feel Mr. Davis's awkward pat on her shoulder.

The car moved again. Mrs. Dougherty was still giving her tips on being sociable, and Temperance bit her lower lip and stared at where the yellow stripe met its reflection in the side-view mirror.

They turned down a road heavy with big, old trees where the houses were set back from the street farther than the Brennans' home or either of the houses where Temperance had yet stayed. They wound away from the main street, and the heavy foliage absorbed heat so it felt about four degrees--or just over six degrees Fahrenheit--cooler.

The driveway Mrs. Dougherty turned into ran alongside an evenly green, carefully-trimmed lawn. The flower bed in the middle of the front yard was filled with bright-colored zinnias and edged with marigolds that were tallest and yellowest in the middle of each side, tapering down to the darkest orange ones in the corners. Geraniums and impatiens along the side of the house were planted in carefully patterned swaths of pink, red, and white.

Temperance's stomach tightened, and she blinked rapidly, pushing away the tight feeling around her eyes and throat. She and Mom had tried several times to produce the flower garden Mom had dreamt of, and Temperance could smell the rich, slightly moldy potting soil that had been under her fingernails for a week each time. Last year they had doted on the eight zinnias that came up from their two dozen packages of seeds and collected the seeds from the dead flowers at the end of the season, laughing as they stored the black-tipped bits of straw in an envelope. Temperance had forgotten it amongst the papers on her mother's desk.

Months before, she'd learned, the desk had been sold, along with everything else, and no amount of logic, reasoning, or pleading had garnered her the right to return to gather any of her belongings. "Where would you put them, anyway?" Mrs. Dougherty had asked.

The envelope with their flower seeds had probably been tossed into the trash. No experimenting with more effective growing methods. No gardening with Mom. No second chances.

Gravel crunched under the tires as the car stopped. Temperance blinked again. A detached garage was straight ahead with a car parked between it and a large tree. She saw a woman with short, curly brown hair and yellow shorts turn off the stream of water from a green hose that she wound onto a spool before walking over to join them.

"You must be Temperance. I'd offer to shake hands, but I'm a mess. Let me call Brad to help you with your things."

"That's all right--"

The woman jogged to the front door and popped inside.

A tall, gangly boy with shaggy hair appeared. Temperance pulled her suitcase from the trunk and headed for the door, but the boy stopped in front of her.

"I'll take those to your room."

"That's all right, really," she said.

"Mom said." He glanced at his mother and took hold of the handle.

She heard Mrs. Dougherty clear her throat and looked to see her social worker tipping her head toward the boy. Slowly she set the suitcases on the front walk and took a step back. "I mean...thank you?"

The curly haired woman reappeared in a light sun dress and walked past the boy.

"That was Brad. He's our youngest son. Curtis is still at work." This time she held out a hand. "And I'm Claire. Claire Maxwell."

"It's nice to meet you, ma'am."

Mrs. Maxwell laughed. "'Ma'am.' We're nothing like that formal at this house." She glanced at Mrs. Dougherty. "Is she always like this?"

"Temperance is a very polite young lady."

"Well, do I call you Temperance, or do you go by something else? Tempe, maybe?"

"No!"

Both women stared at her.

Temperance's heart pounded and she forced herself to speak steadily. "I mean, 'Temperance' is fine." She looked between the women but couldn't interpret their expressions. She had no idea what to do next. She had found that most people responded well to compliments, so she pointed at the zinnias. "Your flowers are very beautiful, Mrs. Maxwell."

"I'm so glad you like them. But you don't have to call me Mrs. Maxwell." She placed an arm around Temperance's shoulders and headed toward the house. "Did you ever garden, Temperance?"

"Yes, ma'am." She hesitated. Mrs. Dougherty's talks ran through her mind. "My mom and I planted flowers the last several years."

"That's so nice. I'll bet you miss her."

Temperance wanted to pull away. She wanted to unpack.

She wanted to go home.

Instead they walked past the bright white of azalea bushes and stepped into the Maxwell's house. It smelled faintly of oranges and ammonia. The furniture and carpet in the living room were a light cream. There were no knick-knacks and only a couple of frames on the walls, one with a landscape, another with an abstract piece that made Temperance shudder.

"I don't know what that boy is thinking sometimes." Mrs. Maxwell raised her voice, "Brad! Didn't I tell you to take these suitcases to her bedroom?"

"You just said bring them in!" he shouted back.

"Get back up here right now and do this right!" She smiled at Temperance and Mrs. Dougherty, and Temperance wasn't sure if the smile was genuine, or covering her anger, or apologetic. "Teenagers," she said. "Can't live with 'em, can't kill 'em."

Brad stomped through and dragged the suitcases around the corner and up one step at a time. Thump. Thump.

Temperance cringed and tried to focus on Mrs. Maxwell's words.

"--be giving you your chores once you're settled in. I'll help you unpack and arrange your things."

"I'm fine," she said, then caught Mrs. Dougherty's wide eyes and slight headshake. "But if you'd like to help..."

"Of course. That way you'll know where to put everything. And we can see what else you have to wear. I'm surprised those people you were with before let you leave the house like that."

Temperance looked between the two women, but they both just smiled. "I was moving out. Why wouldn't they let me leave the house?"

"Well, there are so many ways you could be lovely, but this is not at all put together to flatter you or make a strong first impression. We can work on that, though."

Temperance glanced at Mrs. Dougherty, but the social worker only smiled and gave her a thumbs-up sign.

"Is there anything else you need, or can I help Temperance settle in?" Claire asked.

"You're going in on Monday to register Temperance for school?"

"Absolutely."

"Then everything's set. Temperance, Mrs. Maxwell, give me a call if you need anything or have any questions or concerns. Good luck, Temperance." Mrs. Dougherty waved and let herself out.

Mrs. Maxwell led her down the hall, pointing out the rooms until they turned into one with sports pennants and trophies on shelves.

"This was our older son Mike's room until he went away to college, but we figured you wouldn't mind sharing it with the stuff he left behind. Would you?"

"No, ma'am."

"Well, good, because we're not going to move it!" Mrs. Maxwell laughed. "DA BEARS!"

She punched Temperance in the arm. It hurt. Temperance didn't respond. She didn't know how.

"Oh, come on. DA BEARS!" She punched Temperance's arm again.

This time Temperance shifted her eyes to look at Mrs. Maxwell's face, searching for a clue.

"What is wrong with you?" The woman rolled her eyes. "Now you say it back. **DA BEARS**."

"Duh Bears?"

Mrs. Maxwell rolled her eyes again. "Looks like we've got a _lot_ of work to do. Let's get your stuff put away."

Twenty minutes later Brennan sat on the orange and navy comforter on her bed. Mike's bed. She avoided sitting on the snarling bear's face. It made her uncomfortable. The fangs were prominent, and reminded her of Mrs. Maxwell's smile as she'd carried away the suitcase still containing the half of Temperance's wardrobe she'd deemed "unfit to be seen in public."

Temperance had managed to grab her Christmas gifts and, after Mrs. Maxwell's footsteps reached the bottom of the stairs, had hidden them carefully. Her socks and underwear were on the opposite sides of the drawer from where Temperance usually put them, but Mrs. Maxwell had insisted that was where they had to go. That, and that the door wasn't ever to be closed or locked. Temperance hadn't argued. She was supposed to be fitting in. Making a good impression.

She sat on the corner of the bed and breathed past the tightness in her chest. She opened a tightly-closed fist and fingered her mother's earrings and rings. Mom's robe and cardigan had been hauled away in the suitcase. This and Mom's scarf, which Mrs. Maxwell had admired, were all she had left.

***

Mrs. Maxwell pulled into the school at nine a.m. Monday morning and they sat with the guidance counselor. Temperance was able to fill her schedule with Advanced Placement classes, and Burtonsville High even offered Latin, which hadn't been an option at her other schools. Of course, they made her take P.E., and Mrs. Maxwell's only contribution to the entire meeting was to interject, "At least you're taking _one_ normal thing. I just hope you don't think all those hoity-toity classes mean you'll get out of your chores."

Afterwards, they drove straight to the local thrift store Mrs. Maxwell said was "the best in DuPage County."

Temperance just thought it was warm and ill-lit and smelled like mildew and sweat.

After fifteen minutes, though, Mrs. Maxwell had a huge armful of clothes that Temperance had to admit were very nice and impressively inexpensive. For the next three hours she tried on garment after garment, presenting each for Mrs. Maxwell's approval. The woman adjusted the clothes, poked at Temperance, moved her like a Barbie doll, and gave a running commentary the whole time.

"Oh, no. You don't have enough breasts to pull that off. You don't want a neckline like that. It just shows off that freakishly long neck of yours. Oh, dear. That color makes you look positively yellow. It's like you've been dead for days. Never wear that color. Oh, that really shows off your legs. The boys will know you're offering if you wear those jeans. Oh, a skirt like that just wasn't made for someone with hips like yours. If you're going to wear that you'd need heels, and you're so tall already that it'll just make you stick out like a sore thumb. That dress will look best with your hair down, but with your thin, mousy hair, you need to brush it several times a day if you don't want to look like you never wash it. You could be a fairly pretty girl if you just tried a little."

Temperance spent half of the time reciting the major bones of the human body in her head while Mrs. Maxwell assembled an entire wardrobe for the upcoming school year. The process of ringing up took over ten minutes. Mrs. Maxwell sorted clothes, the cashier searched for prices, and Temperance folded and bagged.

"Look at that!" Mrs. Maxwell crowed, waving the receipt. "We got all of this for $123! That'll use up a big chunk of your check for this month, but didn't I tell you this place was great? Let's get home and start on the basement. We've got a lot of cleaning to do so we can re-paint. You can wear those dreadful clothes you came in while we work."

Temperance followed her out of the store, carrying the bags in silence.

***  
 **Duty Roster**  
***

By the following week, they had planted what had to be several hundred flowers and a small vegetable garden. Mornings were a jog, then gardening and yardwork. They were up to four miles daily. Lunch was followed by house cleaning, then dinner, then an hour in the living room where Temperance studied the school's summer reading.

It was nearly noon, and they were still working with the sun blazing down on them. Mrs. Maxwell held out a hand, Temperance handed her a seedling with its dirt, and Mrs. Maxwell placed it into a hole and scooped the soil around it. Then Mrs. Maxwell scooted over and dug the next hole while Temperance watered the seedling with a cupful of water full of plant food.

"You don't know how wonderful it is, Temperance, to have a girl in the house to share this with." She wiped her forehead with the back of her gardening glove and held her hand out again. Temperance handed over the next seedling. "The boys never took to gardening and cleaning, and I never had a girl live here." She leaned in and lowered her voice. "Of course, our last foster child was a boy, and he stole from us then lied about it. We made sure he ended up in juvie." She smiled. "It's so nice that you can appreciate the things I love with me."

Temperance tried to smile. It must have been sufficient because Mrs. Maxwell kept talking.

"I watched you on this morning's run. Your gait's still awkward, but your endurance is good. Maybe we can run the Chicago marathon together." She patted the dirt with her trowel. "After all that reading of yours this afternoon, I'll have you cut some lettuce for dinner and you can help me-- Curtis! Come see what we've done!"

She stood up, and Temperance did the same. Imitating people was often a safe way to keep them from getting angry.

"All I see is a lot of dirt and a few green things."

Mrs. Maxwell laughed. The laugh was too high, or too fast. Something was wrong with it. Temperance wasn't sure what.

Mrs. Maxwell nudged her with an elbow. "Tell him what we did this afternoon."

Temperance licked her lips. "There are more impatiens, all along the fence now. We planted a mix of white and purple alyssum seeds as ground cover under all the taller flowers. And this," Temperance pointed to the sunny plot in the middle of the yard, "is four more tomato plants, cucumbers, and some squash for later in the summer." There was something satisfying about planting, and she didn't have to force her smile. "The patch of lettuce has made enough for dinner already. I think growing our own food is very exciting."

Mr. Maxwell's face looked approving. "Temperance seems like a huge help."

"Oh, she is." Mrs. Maxwell put an arm around her shoulders. The dirt on her hands joined with sweat to make a muddy smear on her arm. "I was just telling her that, wasn't I, sweetie?"

"Yes, ma'am."

The woman gripped her arm harder and laughed. Her laugh did not come from deep down like Mom's. "Can you believe she keeps calling me ma'am? I've never felt so respected in all my life."

"Maybe it's like on that show _Webster_ , Claire. It's that 'ma'am' reminds her of how 'mom' sounds."

"You can call me mom any time you want," Mrs. Maxwell said, squeezing her even closer.

Temperance jerked away. "You're not my mother."

Everyone froze, and Temperance looked at her toes.

"Did I ever say I was?" Mrs. Maxwell's voice was clipped.

"No, ma'am."

A sharp report and her cheek was stinging. She held her breath to keep from speaking or looking up. She'd learned from Mr. Davis that arguing with someone who slapped her would make no difference.

Mrs. Maxwell's breath, hot on her cheek, smelled like stale coffee. "Then take this as fair warning: don't put words in my mouth."

Temperance shook her head. "No, ma'am."

"And you, Curtis Maxwell, you make sure you don't mow over my plants. And tell that stupid boy to be careful too. I half think that weed eater incident was on purpose."

"Now don't be silly--"

"Don't you even start with me, Curtis. You know this place would look beautiful if it weren't for that ugly-ass planter you call a 'project' that's sitting beside our garage. I swear, if you don't deal with it, I'm going to call to have it towed."

"You can't do any such thing. The title is in my name, and if you think that was an accident, you've got another thing coming!"

Temperance stood very still while they fought. Her parents had never fought and rarely disagreed. This vitriolic exchange was verging on violence, and she kept silent. Silence, at least, was familiar. It rarely helped, but it was familiar.

"Then you'd better get out here and do something with it!" She kicked the trowel at him.

"You can turn any nice conversation into a bitch-fest, can't you, Claire?" he called over his shoulder as he stomped toward the house.

"Pick that stuff up, clean it off, and put it away," Mrs. Maxwell snapped. She took a step closer and Temperance flinched. "Then get inside and clean up. Your face is covered in mud, and the rest of you is filthy too."

"Yes, ma'am," Temperance whispered. She gathered garden tools in silence. Her cheek stopped stinging before she got into the shower.

Preparing dinner was another silent affair, at least for Temperance. Mrs. Maxwell chattered about tomorrow's yard work and schedule, and Temperance washed the lettuce she'd cut, tearing each handful into exacting halves before dropping the leaves in the wooden salad bowl.

"That bowl was a wedding gift from my mother, God rest her soul," Mrs. Maxwell said. "She's been gone for twelve years now. Of course, your mother has died with you even younger than I was." She clicked her tongue.

Temperance stared at the tomatoes she was slicing, watched herself arrange the red circles in a careful pattern on the lettuce. Why did everyone assume her mother was dead? _No one_ knew where they were or what had happened. No one. Not even the police. But she kept her silence; it was _not_ being silent that had gotten her in trouble before.

"Do you think you're too good to sympathize with me?"

Temperance sliced open a green pepper, keeping her eyes on the knife as she cut out the seed pod. "No, ma'am."

Mrs. Maxwell grabbed her wrist, and Temperance reflexively dropped the paring knife. A sharp tug and she was facing Mrs. Maxwell, whose face was as red as when they'd been outside. "I don't know where you learned this kind of rudeness. It makes me wonder if your parents left you because they were terrible people too. Did your parents let you be this uncaring?"

"No, but--"

"Are you trying to talk back to me?"

"No. I just...I didn't think--"

"You? _You_ didn't think? All you _do_ is think, and you couldn't think of this?"

"I'm sorry your mother died, but...it's been twelve years." Her breath came faster, and her heart pounded. Her cheeks flushed hot. "I don't know what you want from me! I don't know what any of you want."

"I just want a little respect, that's all. Just for you to be less selfish and to learn some basic courtesy."

"Just earlier you said you felt respected!"

Mrs. Maxwell stepped in close. "There you go again. Arguing and thinking you're smarter than everyone else."

She replied with what Dad had always said. "But I am smarter than--"

There was the cracking sting again, on the other cheek this time. They were balanced now.

Mrs. Maxwell leaned in, pressing Temperance against the counter. Her voice was quiet and low. "I'm going to give you fair warning now. That kind of hoity-toity talk will get you in more trouble than you can imagine. You have way too high an opinion of yourself, and I'm making it my personal goal to change that."

She pushed away and calmly turned to stir something on the stove. "Now finish that salad, mix the dressing, and get it on the table. And don't be clumsy and drop things like you did last night."

Mrs. Maxwell was a good cook, and she bragged about the garden and the yard and how the salad came from what she and Temperance had planted and tended.

Mr. Maxwell praised the food and the cooks.

At least in this house, God wasn't on the list of those to thank, Temperance thought wryly.

Brad sat across from her, and every time she looked up he was looking at her, smiling more widely every time.

Temperance squirmed, uncomfortable in his gaze, and her own attempt to keep smiling started hurting her cheeks.

"I said, are you done?"

She looked up from chasing two kernels of corn with her fork. Mr. Maxwell was pointing at her.

"I'm sorry?"

"Are. You. Done? You've been sitting there staring at nothing for five minutes. If you're done, get up and leave the table."

"Oh. I thought... All right." She picked up her plate and headed for the kitchen. She was almost to the sink when Mrs. Maxwell's voice startled her.

"Don't go in there without taking something with you! I swear, you're worse than my boys. And don't think you're going to get out of doing the dishes. Just make sure you're careful with them. My mother and I collected those at the Jewel for over two years so I'd have the whole set. I don't want to see a single chip."

"Yes, ma'am." Temperance picked up the empty corn bowl and hurried to the kitchen before there could be another discussion about respect and talking back.

When the dishes were done, she went upstairs to get ready for bed. The school had let her check out her books for the fall semester and she wanted to make sure she was prepared for her courses. She drew and labeled a cell in her head as she brushed her teeth. When she'd dried her hands, she adjusted the towels so the bottoms were lined up. Mrs. Maxwell had already yelled at her for being careless about that. She switched off the light, opened the door, and walked directly into Brad.

"Excuse me."

He didn't move.

"I'm done now. You can have the bathroom."

He stepped a couple of inches to the side, and she'd moved to slip past him when he stepped in again, pressing his torso flush against her so her back was pinned against the door frame. She scooted toward the hall, and his knee went between her legs and against the wood, pinning her.

"Let me go," she said, keeping her voice and expression flat, staring at his chest. She hadn't realized how tall he was.

He tucked her hair back over her ear and breathed into it, "I never thought when Mom got this stupid foster kid idea that we'd actually get a girl." He set his hand on her side, and she shrank away.

"Stop it."

"Course, I think she always wanted a girl. Wanted me to be a girl. I'm just glad she's all busy with you. First time in my life she's left me alone. I get it though, now. It's kinda fun watching her tear into someone else. I like being forgot. You're not bad to look at, either." He pressed his lips to her neck, and she felt his tongue touch her skin.

She jerked toward the hallway, shoving him into the bathroom at the same time. He staggered, and she bolted for her room.

"I'm watching you," he called. "Enjoying it too."

She pulled the covers up around her and hugged her knees, although it was uncomfortable while breathing as hard as she was. A slow breath, in and out. Another. Then she opened her biology textbook and started to read.

She woke to knocking and a heavy weight on her chest. It was her parents. They were home. No. The police were there to ask about them. _Don't answer the door. They'll take you away._

The knocking grew more insistent. It was the police. They were there with news. Her parents were dead. As she rolled over, the book fell to the floor, and she stared at Mr. Maxwell, who watched from the doorway, hammer and screwdriver in hand.

"What are you doing in my room?" she demanded.

"This isn't your room. It's Mikey's room. Claire, she wants to be able to make sure you don't mess it up. Said she told you not to shut the door." He shrugged. "So, when she found it closed when she got up, she told me to take it down." He pulled a hinge pin out. "Come over and hold this steady while I get the last pin out, would you?"

When the door came off the hinges it fell on her toe. She bit her lip and kept silent. Mrs. Maxwell would just point out that she shouldn't have been so clumsy.

"Claire's almost ready for your jog. I wouldn't make her wait, if I was you," Mr. Maxwell said.

Brad crossed his arms as he leaned against his door across the hall while his dad carried her door downstairs.

"You gotta listen to Mom. She _always_ means what she says." He grinned, then waggled his eyebrows at her and nodded to her open doorway. "The better to see you through, my dear."

She shivered, but raised her chin. He couldn't do anything now that there was no door. All talk. He was all talk. She grabbed her clothes and shoes and changed in the bathroom.

Downstairs, Mrs. Maxwell was stretching. "Finally. Hope you're ready. Today we're doing eight miles."

***  
 **The Whites of Their Eyes**  
***

"Temperance! Go pick a few tomatoes!"

"Coming!"

She pulled a shirt on quickly and pulled her still-wet hair out of the collar. Their morning run was a consistent eight to ten miles, and the heat of July meant she was still red-faced and breathing heavily even after her shower. She felt strong. Cleansed. Powerful.

She glanced in the small mirror and deflated. Two purple-and-brown bruises on her right arm and one on her left, that with its fading yellowish mark, were visible. She was weak. Useless. And Claire was right: no one would believe anything she said. No adults had since before the state came and took her away.

She grabbed another shirt, ran back to the bathroom, and peeled out of the first, yanking on the one with sleeves that came to her elbows.

"Temperance!"

"I'm coming!" She took the stairs two at a time.

Claire grabbed her arm and twisted the skin between her thumb and finger. Temperance struggled not to wince; it was the same spot Claire had grabbed when she was two minutes late for their run this morning.

"I wouldn't rush down those stairs if I were you. This is just fair warning. As big a klutz as you are, you'll fall, and the last thing I need is to have to spend all day in the emergency room."

"Yes, ma'am." Not even a year ago, her parents would have been concerned about _her_ if she fell, not about what a bother it would cause. She swallowed. Why had she ever believed people caring about her was how things worked in the real world? She'd been a fool.

She washed the three ripest big-boy tomatoes at the spigot and brought them inside, tucking them in her shirt hem so as not to drip on the floor. Once they were in a plastic container Claire added them to their cooler.

"Bread, lunchmeat, fruit, tomatoes, lettuce, carrot sticks, deviled eggs, mayonnaise, cheese, mustard, cottage cheese, and beer and soda in the other cooler. Okay. Let's get going!" She grabbed the drinks and gestured. Temperance picked up the bigger cooler. "Guys! Get your pathetic asses down here! We've got to head out!"

As Curtis packed the trunk, Temperance pointed to the car next to the garage. "Why don't we ever use that car?"

"That?" Claire scoffed. "That's just Curtis and Mike's 'project car.' Every now and then they get some idea that they'll fix it up or rebuild the engine. They never do, of course."

Temperance saw how Brad's lip curled in disgust, but Claire seemed oblivious to it as she climbed into the front seat.

It took forty-five minutes to get downtown, fifteen to park, and another twenty to walk past the museums and out onto the grounds of the planetarium. Curtis and Brad set down the big cooler and spread out woolen, green, army blankets.

"Perfect. We got here early enough to get the best spot. We'll be able to see everything from here." Claire started making sandwiches and laying out food. "Temperance, why don't you and Brad play frisbee?

Temperance glanced at Brad and suppressed a shudder. "Are you sure you don't need help with the food?"

Claire's expression was obscured by her huge sunglasses and the Cubs cap that matched her husband's cap and shirt, but she just waved them off.

Brad rolled his eyes. "Come on. I guess without Mike here, I'm stuck with you. Pretty sure you're going to suck, though."

Her jaw tightened, and she jogged backwards away from him. "Don't be so sure about that."

He threw the disk, and she tracked it, calculated its curve, jumped, caught it, and whipped it back, putting a spin on it so it would curve at the last minute, just like Russ had taught her. She and Russ had played on every camping trip and family outing from the time she was old enough to get a frisbee airborne all the way through last fall's trip to Starved Rock. That had been the last family outing they'd had before...everyone left her. She grabbed the frisbee out of the air again and flung it as hard as she could at Brad.

He caught it inches from his forehead. "Whoa! What the hell are you trying to do?"

She shrugged and smiled. "See how badly you suck at this?"

Brad threw it higher and farther from her, and she sprinted for it and returned the throw each time. She grinned until even her forehead ached. By the time Claire called them for food her shoulders and calves were warm, and her throat and chest were burning. She tossed the frisbee onto the grass next to the blankets and sank to a cross-legged position.

"So, Brad, are you ready to take that back?" She took a bite out of a devilled egg.

"Take what back?" He stared and that smile she didn't like spread slowly across half of his face. He looked like a canine predator when he did that.

Temperance looked away and out over the lake as she crunched on peppers and carrots and celery.

"You looked good out there, Temperance," Curtis said. "Looks like Claire's going to turn you into an athlete yet."

"Only if I can dig her out of those books," Claire laughed.

Temperance clenched her teeth and managed not to comment on Claire having pulled her Biology text from her hands and thrown it into the car trunk. There was quite a while until dusk, and reading would have been a good way to pass the time. Instead she continued to stare out over the waves moving in and out. There were sine waves she couldn't entirely calculate. She tried to see the line graph in her head, the steady wash in, the increased height of the waves as the water responded to a shallower basin, the disruption of water washing back out and pushing under the next wave. The physics was still beyond her, the stuff of this year's math and next year's physics classes.

 _If_ she got to stay at this school, where they offered the level of classes she needed. And _if_ she could do enough studying despite the Maxwells.

They played more frisbee and then card games, chasing down the cards that blew away and losing a few into the lake. Temperance read a few chapters in summer reading paperback for AP Language that she'd sneaked in with. Her sweaty hands stuck to the book, but the midday heat was somewhat cooled by the breeze off the lake. As her eyes tired from the glare on her pages, Temperance watched clouds drift along high up in the sky as the afternoon drifted into evening.

It was perfect weather for the fireworks, which started at dusk with a huge explosion Temperance felt in her chest.

Unlike some of the later arrivals, they had enough space to spread out. Brad came back from the hacky-sack game he'd struck up with a group of shaggy-haired teens wearing open flannel shirts over t-shirts with band images emblazoned on them. He plunked down on his back to watch the show. Curtis sat between Claire and Temperance, and, early in the show, he put an arm around Temperance's shoulder. She wasn't sure why she didn't twist away.

She cast a furtive glance up at him. His face rainbow-lit by the pyrotechnics, and he wasn't looking at her. His hand was warm, and the feel of it draped over her shoulders was all too similar to her father's arm around her last year.

The cascade of colored confetti blurred. It should be Dad's arm. She should be able to lean against his shoulder. It should be Mom on the other side, tucked in close to his chest with her hands on Dad's back and thigh, not Claire, who sat several inches away from her husband.

It should be like it was last year.

The next explosion produced a deep blue weeping willow effect as the charge exploded and released bright components that burned themselves out as they fell. Burned and gone, just like life had been, and just as fast.

At the next shower of bright-colored confetti, she counted from the visual to the sound of the explosion. By her calculation, they were just over a mile from the launch point of the display. She wondered exactly what chemicals burned in which colors at what temperatures as she studied the carefully-crafted fireworks. The entire area smelled like spent matches and a smoky haze clung to the air.

The grand finale was met with whistles, cheers, and applause, but to Temperance it just felt like another loss, another good thing that was over.

***  
 **Digging Latrines**  
***

Temperance jerked awake. There was a voice. Loud. Near. Not identifiable. Almost screaming.

"Why are you always so lazy?"

The light blanket she used was yanked off her in a whoosh of air. A jerk on her wrist rolled her so that she landed on her shoulder and hip on the floor.

Temperance blinked at the figure above her. She acted in a split second, grabbing the ankles and twisting so she rolled into the legs. The body went down with a crash and swearing. 

Temperance jumped to her feet and ran down the stairs, calling out, "Claire? Curtis?"

The kitchen was empty.

Her heart pounded frantically as she looked from room to room. "Claire! Curtis? Brad? Is anyone there? There's someone in my room!"

She saw no one, but someone was in the house with her. Someone who had hurt her. She ran for the front door and tugged. The knob turned, but the door held. She felt for the deadbolt but found only a keyhole. She turned and ran.

One step and she collided with a wall. Then hands rose from beside the wall and took her arms in a tight grip.

She screamed and kicked out, fighting for freedom. For survival.

"Temperance, what the hell is wrong with you?"

She hesitated at her name.

In that moment her assailant spun her around so that her face slammed into some solid surface she couldn’t identify. Whoever it was yanked her arm up behind her back hard enough to make her yelp in pain. 

"Claire? You okay?" A man's voice in her ear. Familiar. And it had known her name.

Steps came down the stairs. A light switch clicked. What had been vague, formless shapes took on character and definition. She tried to turn her head, and the man pulled her hand farther up her back and placed an arm across her shoulders near her neck. She couldn't move. Her nose was compressed against the wood and she panted through the corner of her mouth.

"I think I'm okay." A growl crept into his voice as he continued, "Little bitch attacked me! What the fuck is that about?"

Curtis. It was Curtis. He wouldn't hurt her. But pressure where her cheekbone dug into wood spread pain through her head, and she winced when he leaned even harder into her back.

Temperance gasped, "I...I thought..."

"You thought that was how to thank us for all we've done for you?" 

"No," Temperance squeaked out. "I thought you were Brad."

"Why the hell would you think that?" Curtis punctuated the question with a shove, and Temperance yelped again.

"He said...he looks..." She gasped for air. "He...

Claire leaned against the door so they were nose-to-nose. "Are you implying something bad about my son?"

"No...no...just that he...I was just scared...startled. Sorry."

Curtis relaxed his hold and spun her around. He slammed her back, pressing her shoulders into the door. She winced but kept silent.

"Claire's been telling me you're a trouble maker. I've been saying this past month that you seem to be a good worker. I've defended you, but now you've crossed a line." He pushed off against her. "You'd better shape up."

Claire's eyes flashed, and her face was flushed. "I'm giving you fair warning. You'd better have your ass back down here in two minutes, or we're doing fifteen miles."

Temperance sprinted to her room, grabbed clothes, and emerged from the bathroom less than a minute later.

"I'll have it set up when you get back," Curtis was saying.

"Good. There you are. We're already late, and there's a lot to do. Let's go."

The morning was cool, and a light breeze blew through the leaves. Temperance felt goosebumps spring out on her arms and legs as they began to move. The sun-flecked pavement rose and fell beneath her feet, and the light flickered off of it as the wind moved the leaves. Her muscles warmed, stiffened, then loosened again. The events of the morning fell away with the rhythm of arm and leg movements, the sweat on her body, and the steadiness of her breath.

By the fourth mile she felt cleansed and strong, her mind clear. By the sixth, she listened only to her breath. By the ninth, the sun was higher in the sky, the air was warmer, and she kept her head up and shoulders back as they headed up the last incline to the house. Strong. Cleansed. Invigorated. Powerful.

They reached the house and broke stride, draining the water bottles nestled in the purple irises under the mailbox and walking to the end of the block. The cooler air of the well-treed block washed over with her along with the exhilaration she now expected.

Halfway back around the block they were breathing normally again, and Temperance was stretching her arms, shoulders, and sides. "I'm sorry I was late this morning. I really appreciate you running with me."

Claire was silent until they reached the house. "Ah, good. Curtis has the ladder, brushes, and buckets out. Today you're going to scrub down the siding on the house. Every inch. Get done by dinner if you want any." Without turning she called back, "And don't be late tomorrow morning."

***

When Temperance staggered into the mudroom hours later, her arms and legs were rubbery, and her sneakers squelched with each step. The street lights had come on, the moon was bright and high in the sky, and her clothes clung to her skin.

She sat down on the floor and began unknotting shoelaces that had tightened with repeated wetting. A fingernail bent backwards, her hands shook and cramped, and she dropped her forehead to her knees. Grime scratched between the layers of skin. When she started again, and the laces came loose, she set the wet shoes on the porch, peeled off socks, and wiped her feet carefully.

Upstairs, she climbed into the shower with her clothes on and washed them before removing, rinsing, and hanging them to dry over the rod. As hot water hit her skin, it stung, and when she brushed at it, there were sunburn blisters. Nothing she could do about that. Leaning against the wall, she let the water wash over her, taking rivulets of mud down her legs to circle the drain. She jerked awake as she felt herself sliding along the wall and forced herself to get out, towel off, and dress.

The rest of the house was dark, and she crept to the kitchen. She kept a hand on the wall. Her stomach had long since stopped rumbling, but she was lightheaded despite the large drinks of water she'd had from the hose every time she'd refilled her bucket. She tucked herself into a corner of the kitchen and spread peanut butter on a piece of bread, forcing herself to chew and swallow slowly. Her hand shook, and her arms, back, legs, feet...everywhere ached. She leaned against the sink as she washed and dried the knife, then replaced it in the drawer, made sure she'd left no crumbs, wiped out the sink, and hung the dishrag evenly over the faucet.

Bananas hung from a hook under the cabinets, and her stomach growled for one. But Claire would almost certainly remember how many there had been, and she had no desire to repeat today's labor. Instead she peered around the corner and listened for the Maxwells. She padded toward the stairs, her muscles complaining at each step, and glanced once more over her shoulder one more time before heading for her room.

A hand grabbed her shoulder and spun her around so that her back slammed into the wall. She only partially suppressed a scream. A hand went over her mouth, shoving her head into the wall and her chin up, squeezing her cheeks and jaw. A chill washed through her.

She pushed, scratched, and tried to sidestep. The large silhouette pressed her against the wall. She couldn't find purchase. His fingers dug into her shoulder, and it burned.

He leaned down and brushed his lips along her cheek to her ear. "Temperance."

She tried to squirm away, and his pelvis pressed against her. She felt a whimper vibrate through her throat and tried to ask, "What are you doing?"

"That's for me to know and you to find out." His hand shifted and his thumb slipped under her shirt, stroking her breast.

She fought harder, pushing, kicking. "Get away from me!" She braced a foot against the wall and pushed.

Brad picked her up by her bottom and leaned back in. "I've already decided when and where I'm going to fuck you, so you'd better get interested." He dropped her into her room and pushed so she fell.

Curtis's voice rumbled. "Quiet down out there! It's time to sleep!"

Temperance could see Brad's face from the light that shone through the window. He pointed a finger at her and smiled that feral smile. She scooted instinctively away, crab-walking.

"And no one will ever believe you," he said, and was gone.

She was frozen, trembling, a weary muscle in her shoulder, thigh, or calf twitching occasionally. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, and she could still feel his fingers on her shoulder, her face, her breast. She felt like someone had poured her out, leaving her hollow. By the time she could move again her skin was cold from the air conditioning.

She climbed into bed, pulling the largest weapon she could find with her, and tucked the blanket close around her.

She slept with one arm over her biology textbook and dreamt. In her dream, Dad and Russ took turns beating up Brad. His bloody nose and bruises would heal, and they'd go after him, again and again. After several rounds, the dream them turned and saw her.

Dad smiled and stepped back. "You next, Tempe. You do it yourself."

Brad healed before her eyes. She got two punches and a kick in before Brad stepped back. She glanced over, and Dad and Russ had vanished. Mom appeared, then waved and disappeared as well.

"Come back!"

Mom was nowhere to be seen. Temperance ran after her, but the dream Brad tackled her from behind and pinned her down. It hurt everywhere he touched her.

She woke up tangled in her blanket, heart racing. Covered in sweat. Every muscle ached, and her neck, shoulders, and arms burned. She glanced at the clock. It was 5am.

She forced herself to roll out of bed and grab running clothes. She wouldn't be late.

***  
 **Full Frontal Assault **  
**  
*****

The summer dragged on in a familiar pattern.

She got up ready to run with Claire every morning. They did yard work and gardening and housecleaning. She did her summer school assignments. Brad alternated between gloating about not being Claire's target and trying to grope her. Most of the time, she avoided him.

She helped cook. She hung the towels straight, cut the grass and flowers evenly, lined up the cans in the cabinets and the food in the refrigerator neatly, kept her clothes organized. She did as she was asked, was smart, and needed only one explanation. She was never late and rarely early. She was precise, consistent.

She was also confused. The more she did right, the more rigid and demanding and unhappy the Maxwells grew with her.

There were two visits from Mrs. Dougherty, who gave her a too-wide smile and a thumbs-up over how well she'd settled in to her new 'family.' Temperance kept quiet about the less comfortable aspects of the household; the courses at Burtonsville High would get her back on track for college, and she didn't want to risk her one escape route.

The Maxwells watched the Summer Olympics. Temperance joined them, noting the political shifts determining teams. She memorized history and changes discussed regarding the former Soviet Union, Germany, Yugoslavia, the Baltics, so much history that was pertinent to AP Euro in the fall. Claire watched gymnastics, sprinting and the marathon, pointing out that Temperance would do well to be in track and cross country at her new school. Curtis and Temperance watched swimming and diving and sometimes Brad joined them. Temperance usually excused herself then, and when the guys watched weightlifting or boxing.

Finally, school started.

She was, again, the New Girl. Too smart, too tall, too awkward, too prepared, too different.

Temperance ignored the Burtonsville High cliques, did her school work, and kept up with chores at the Maxwells'. Temperance and Claire went for shorter runs now as the days grew shorter and the mornings cooled with the onset of autumn.

Temperance was dressed and on time every day.

In classes, a vital part of her awakened, like it had been sleeping all summer...possibly even since Russ drove away. Her mind was busy with new ideas. She determinedly didn't think about what was missing.

She read assignments and texts and news. Her observations from the Olympics continued to be represented in the news with the restructuring of the former Soviet bloc, and AP Euro had discussions that drew heavily on the troubles in Northern Ireland. In AP English Language they discussed the angle from which various news outlets presented the events at Ruby Ridge and how the words used revealed reporting and ideological biases. AP French allowed her to practice speaking and writing, and she studied political shifts in West Africa. She learned not to try to discuss these topics with the Maxwells after a rant drove her from the table, red-faced and shaking, but silent.

She wrote papers, studied, memorized, and knowledge turned the key of possibility for her. She visited a school counselor, outlining her plan for the rest of high school, her hopes for college, taking notes that she kept organized in a folder that was always in her backpack.

Her plans began to gel as she calculated her earned college credit from her AP classes. She would have basic math, science, language, and writing class requirements fulfilled, no matter what university she attended, and Ms. Kunaki had seemed convinced that, despite her moves among schools, Temperance would have no trouble getting admitted or getting sufficient financial aid. Burtonsville High had good academics, and she was pleased with how much ground most of the classes had covered in the seven short weeks since Labor Day.

She wanted to get a head start on the research paper for AP Euro History that was due October fifteenth. If she got the research done this weekend, she could spend the three-day weekend next week preparing it and still have time after Columbus Day to polish it. Planning her research and outline in her head, she scraped plates into the garbage and set dishes on the counter. Another load and the table was cleared. Temperance wiped down the surface and organized the salt and pepper and napkin holder while Claire ran the dishwater. Claire insisted the dishwasher by itself didn't get the dishes clean enough.

"Be careful with these dishes." It was a nightly refrain.

Temperance reached into the water, flinched, and yanked her hand back, her skin prickling with heat.

"You'd better be working in there!"

She took two slow breaths, wrapped the dishrag around her hand, and reached in again, grabbing the top plate. But the scalding heat was too much, and she snapped her hand back again, gasping. She didn't have a solid hold on the smooth stoneware, and it started to slip. She tightened her grasp, but the soap-slicked dish slid through her fingers. Temperance watched in terrified horror as it hit the floor, shattering into dozens of pieces.

Temperance heard her own cry, and her heart rate spiked. Perspiration burst from every pore.

Before she could drag her eyes away from the shards, Claire was standing in the doorway, her expression darkening to fury. "What the hell? You actually broke my grandmother's plate?"

"I thought..." Fear drove her to keep saying _something_. "I thought you said you and your mother--"

"Don't talk back to me, you clumsy little.... What did I _just_ say? The _last_ thing I said before I left the room!"

Temperance said nothing. It would only make Claire angrier. She had pulled bushels of weeds, had washed windows, had scrubbed bathroom grout with an old toothbrush--all punishments for relatively minor infractions. She trembled, hot and cold by turns, wondering what her sentence would be for this.

"Curtis! Curtis, make sure your shoes are on and look at this mess!" Claire shook her head, beginning to pick up the larger pieces, then shot another glare at Temperance. "Aren't you going to help me?"

Temperance squatted, trying not to cut her feet on the fragments. She began to put pieces in the trash can, cringing as the shards scraped against each other.

"What the hell did she do _this_ time?" Curtis asked.

Claire threw a wedge of plate into the trashcan hard enough to make it break again. "Little bitch smashed one of mom's dishes on the floor."

"I didn't mean--"

"Are you going to talk back about this?"

Temperance shook her head, her thoughts racing. "The water was scalding--"

"It was fine. Not only are you a klutz, you still talk back. For someone who thinks you're so smart, you sure don't learn fast."

Brushing fragments into a pile with trembling hands, Temperance started to put pinches of them into the trash can.

Temperance squealed in surprise and pain as Claire grabbed a handful of flesh under Temperance's upper arm. Once Temperance was on her feet, Claire shoved her at Curtis.

"I think she needs a lesson in just how good she's got it here." Claire glanced out the window with a tight, feral smile. "Give me your keys," she said. "And bring _her_."

With the hand that wasn't gripping Temperance's arm like a vise, Curtis tossed his keys to Claire. He twined his hand into the back of her hair before shoving her ahead of him into the back yard.

"Please..." Somewhere in her mind, in the part that was hiding, Temperance was surprised that she dared to speak.

Claire stopped abruptly and spun around. Her face was a mask of fury. "Excuse me?"

Temperance shrank back. "Please...don't hurt me." The words shuddered out of her. "Please. I didn't mean to. The water was so hot..."

"There you go, making excuses again."

Temperance's shoulders pressed up into her ears. Claire stepped right up into her face.

"Did I warn you?"

Temperance stilled and answered automatically, "Yes, ma'am."

"Did you know these plates were important to me?"

Her breath caught. "Yes. Yes, ma'am. I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. I tried to be careful--"

"She can't even apologize without making excuses. Not that any apology would undo it."

She turned and Curtis dragged Temperance after her, across the back yard.

She wanted to demand answers. _Where are you taking me? What are you going to do to me? Why are you hurting me?_

She wanted to run. She began to flail and kick and pull. She dug her bare feet into the manicured grass. She kicked at the rocks, trees, anything. She clawed at Curtis's arm and neck.

"Ow! You bitch!" He smacked the side of her head and her hair pulled where he gripped it. Then his arm was around her throat and he was dragging her. She kicked harder, trying to get her fingers around his arm to pry it loose. But she couldn't get away.

She needed to scream, to call for help. No sound came out except humiliating whimpers.

Nothing she did made a difference.

The trunk on Curtis and Brad's big "project car" squeaked open. The dark opening yawned menacingly, and she tried to push at the ground. The smell and taste mucus overwhelmed her, threatened to choke her, although she didn't know when she'd started crying.

She didn't want to die.

"Put her in."

She was going to die.

Curtis wrapped his arms around her. She pushed at him, but her hands were trapped, and he whisked her off the ground. In her panic, she felt as if her abdomen had been emptied, and she was going to throw up.

"No. No! Please don't! Please! I'm sorry! I didn't mean--" She braced her feet against the edge of the trunk.

Curtis pulled her back then flung her into the trunk. Her knee hit the lid, her foot the edge, her elbow the floor, and her head bounced off of the wheel well. She kicked at Curtis and struggled to climb back out.

Claire just stood back coolly. "The more you fight the consequences, the worse they'll be," she said, arms crossed.

Temperance had to get away. She tried to scramble out of the trunk, but Curtis shoved her back. "Don't leave me here! Please!"

"There are consequences for everything, Temperance. You know that. Maybe next time you'll pay attention to what you're doing.

Temperance pulled at the edge of the trunk, trying to get up. The lid slammed down and she only just missed it crushing her fingers.

She heard them walk away, and she screamed. "No! Please! Please come back!"

Nothing.

She pounded at the trunk lid, making as much noise as possible. "I'll be good!" she called. "I'll do better! I'll _be_ better!" She kicked and pounded until she was drenched in sweat and hyperventilating.

Still nothing.

"Please don't leave me here! Please! Please!" Her voice slowly trailed off, and she finally lay, spent. She kept whispering "please, please, please" after silence and darkness surrounded her. "Don't leave me. Don't leave me."

She ran her hands over the walls and floor and winced. Her hands and feet throbbed and stung.

She raised them to her lips. The skin by her thumb burned against her lip, and she pulled her hand away. It had been scalded. Her fingertips tasted iron-tinged.

There was no choice, though. She felt every inch of the trunk, looking for a catch, for a tool. There was only metal, harsh with corners and ridges and a couple of foul-smelling rags. No crowbar. No jack.

Even with a tool or a catch, even if she could get herself out, Claire would only find another punishment, probably worse. She would wait. They couldn't possibly leave her long. She counted her breaths like she did after running. Someone would wonder where she was if they left her too long. Someone would come.

The mildewy air was stale. The trunk was small. She couldn't stretch out her legs. Metal dug into whatever part of her it touched.

Since there was nothing she could do, the best thing was to rest and wait. They would come back. In the meantime, she planned her research paper.

The air grew chillier by the minute. Her arms hurt. Her head hurt. Her feet stung. Her fingers and hand throbbed.

Her body distracted her from her thoughts.

Some time later she woke, surprised to find she'd slept. Night birds and insects sang and cheeped and whistled. Her ears, nose, fingertips, and feet were cold.

She held up three fingers in front of her face and thought she saw them. Then she felt her hand with the other and found her palm was in her line of sight. The sensation was very much like jumping into the deep end of a pool with her eyes closed then spinning underwater until she couldn't _feel_ which way was up. She was as hidden from the world here as she would be under the ocean.

She felt around the small compartment again, this time using a methodical search pattern. But she had missed nothing the first time. No blanket, no water, no food...no way out.

Kicking the trunk again, she could get neither leverage nor any sense that the latch might give. The pain in her feet intensified and when she felt them, her fingers came away slick with liquid. No matter. She changed position and tried kicking at the seats. They budged even less, and the movement shoved her head into the metal car frame.

She could not save herself. They could leave her here and unless someone came looking for her, she could be long dead and no one would know it had been she could die, alone and forgotten, in the trunk of this run-down, rusted out hulk of a car, and no one would ever know. She shivered.

The ache of cold settled into her, and the trunk grew damper with her breath and the humidity and dew. She packed herself into a corner, trying to trap and conserve warmth, and tried to hope that she'd be released soon.

The next time she opened her eyes, it was warm, and she could see shadowy shapes. She needed desperately to use a toilet. It had to be morning. The night animals were silent, and birds sang their morning trills and tunes. She couldn't hear anyone nearby.

She considered calling out, but if she was too loud, the Maxwells might hear and punish her further.

Worse, Brad might come out and...with a shudder, she imagined him opening the trunk and taking advantage of this hidden and treed corner of the property. Whatever he might do, though, was preferable to dying here, alone.

Her voice gave out after what could have been two hours or four.

The sun had gotten higher, and the temperature was up. Sweat dripped everywhere and tickled as it hesitated at the tops of her curves. Thirst warred with a need to urinate until she maneuvered herself into a far corner of the trunk, relieved herself, and squirmed around against the back of the seats, trying to pretend she hadn't peed herself or the car. The air was thick with ammonia, urea, and heat. She was light-headed.

Soon. Certainly soon they'd let her out before she passed out. Certainly the punishment was sufficient to the offense by now.

She snorted at her foolish hope that Russ or Dad or Mom would ever come back and find her. If they were alive, if they cared, if they could, they would be here, and she would be somewhere else.

Wishful thinking did not make things so. It was time she accepted that her family was gone.

A charley horse jerked her awake, and she pressed her flexed foot against the side of the car, breathing into it as she tried to relax her calf. She felt the cut on her foot break open again.

Her shoulder ached where it pressed into the metal floor, which was cold again and painful to the touch. She'd been curled into a cramped ball for so long she doubted her ability to ever straighten out.

Her mouth and eyes were sticky, scratchy. She managed to scoot to the corner of the trunk to urinate another time and to defecate once. The fumes turned her stomach and made it even more difficult to breathe. Her stomach cramped. The exertion required to move was a too great, so she lay still. Her chest ached with the effort to draw air.

Another bowel movement. Had it been two days? Three? She would have already missed Monday's AP Euro test and Tuesday's in-class French essay. Her AP Bio lab would have been due tomorrow.

School. Had school called to ask about her? Maybe school would send someone, or call Mrs. Dougherty. They would care about accounting for her whereabouts.

But if the Maxwells could say she'd run away...and it was unlikely anyone would look in the trunk of an old car...

She would die here.

She wondered absently when--or if--the Maxwells would get her out and, if they did, where they would leave her body.

There were things she had wanted before she died. She had wanted Russ to come back. She had wanted to see Mom again, to hear Dad tell her he loved her. Just one more time. One more time would have been enough. Just one.

She wondered if they would come for her when she died, if they would hear and come back to bury her. Maybe that would be her one more time.

 _Be careful what you wish for_ , they always say. She almost laughed at her own macabre joke.

She wished she believed she would see them after death.

The growing chill meant it was becoming dark outside again, and her damp clothes stuck cold to her skin. She shivered away energy she did not have. Her teeth shattered. Her thoughts flowed slowly, and there were long moments when she simply drifted, unable to focus on anything at all.

She knew she would not wake up from this night.

***  
 **Scorched Earth Policy**  
***

She heard jingling. It was distant. Everything was distant. Her mind. Her body. Even the pain. All far away.

She heard the slide of metal on metal.

A click sounded near her. It was a lock opening.

Temperance started, hitting her head on the wheel well. Again. She scooted against the back of the trunk, trying to wedge herself far away from whatever was coming next.

The metal lid raised, and cold, crisp air rushed in. It stung her face, her hands, her legs. She coughed. Her lungs burned with the sudden influx of fresh oxygen. She tried not to cry, but her body betrayed her again. Her throat and the corners of her eyes contracted, and tears rolled across the tight skin of her cheeks.

"Get out."

It was Claire.

Temperance tried to move. Her muscles ached and cramped in her sides, back, and legs. The arm she'd been lying on was numb and wouldn't support her. She tried to climb over the urine and feces. She tried not to catch her foot on the lip of the trunk. She tried not to stumble and fall as her feet touched the ground. She tried to unbend her legs to stand up.

She never wanted to know what she looked like in this moment.

"God, you're disgusting."

Tears kept leaking out of her eyes, even as her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth.

Everything was pain. Standing, hunger, humiliation. Pain and fear. The fear of and uncertainty about what came next, or didn't come next.

Still, she heard the whisper--aloud or in her head, she did not know--of her one thought: "Thank you. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Thank you."

The sheer relief and the high of breathing fresh air along with the gratitude that they'd let her out, that she was alive after all...it overwhelmed her. It was too much.

Silent sobs shook her. Her whole body trembled with pain, with cold, and with emotion.

"You'd think we'd have noticed you were missing," Claire sneered. "But either it was just peaceful without your smart mouth around, or you're just forgettable. I guess it's lucky the school calls names, or they might have missed you too."

The school didn't take roll by name, but Temperance didn't correct Claire. She just stared at a brown patch of lawn next to her still-bare feet. Her toes were so white. The air was cool on her face and the backs of her hands. She curled her chilled fingertips into her palms.

A roll of paper towels butted her in the chest. "Take these and clean up. You made the mess, and I'll be damned if I'm touching it."

Temperance's breath shuddered in and out, and she reached mechanically for the trash can of cleaning supplies, clutching the paper towels while still staring at the dead grass.

Claire dug fingertips into Temperance's shoulder and growled with minty breath, "You leave it better than you found it, you hear me?"

Temperance opened her mouth, but her jaw and chin still trembled, and her breath still hitched, leaving her voiceless. She bit her lip and nodded.

"Make sure you strip out of those filthy clothes, and throw them away when you come in. Then clean up so you're not so vile."

Temperance began scooping, wiping, and scrubbing.

It wasn't until after a shower where she'd drunk as much water as she'd bathed with, after she'd been told there'd be food at breakfast and ordered to her room, after she'd climbed into bed, shivering. Only then she discover that it was only Monday night. That only two days had passed.

She sank into the mattress, extra soft after the harsh bite of the trunk’s metal. Her legs and back begged to be stretched out flat. Her joints and muscles pleaded for rest. But she couldn’t help drawing her knees tightly to her chest and rocking herself to sleep. 

***

"Oh, my God!" Julie leaned across the aisle. "Temperance, you look awful!"

Temperance trembled all over. _How much do they know? They can't know. No one can know._ The classes here were what she needed to get into college, to be prepared for college. She had her schedule planned for next year--

"Are you okay?"

Now Carrie was turned around and looking at her.

"I'm okay," she said. She tried to smile. Mrs. Dougherty had focused several times on the importance of smiling.

"You must've been really sick."

Carrie leaned closer. Temperance wanted to close her eyes. She hated being afraid.

"You should really talk to Mme. Roselle. I know I wouldn't want to do that in-class essay if I felt as bad as you look."

"I'll be fine." It was getting harder to breathe. She didn't understand why and was too tired to want more than for it to stop.

Both girls kept looking at her. She was trying to think what else she could say when the bell rang and Mme. Roselle asked them to take out pens and paper. Temperance sighed with relief as the other girls dug in their backpacks. She straightened the paper she had ready on her desk. Mme. Roselle reminded them of the expectations of writing for Advanced Placement. She clicked on the overhead screen to reveal the prompt. Temperance jotted notes and vocabulary words, numbered her ideas, and began to write.

The day passed in a blur. She drank at every water fountain she passed, ate the free-lunch cafeteria food, tried to stay awake, and stumbled over her own clumsy feet as she moved between classes. She scheduled a re-take for her AP Euro test and reassured her Biology teacher that she'd have the lab ready tomorrow and didn't need extra time.

Tomorrow she'd be better.

***

Despite the colder weather setting in, morning jogs were still shared. Temperance started running to school as well, backpack securely fastened. Claire muttered something almost positive about that initiative.

Temperance was pleased with her ingenuity. Claire hadn't realized Temperance's motive was stay in the school building until the computer lab closed, so Temperance wasn't punished. Most days, by the time she got home it was nearly dinner time, and she was able eat, dispatch her chores, then to go to her room for whatever homework or reading she hadn't finished at school. To get into her room or the bathroom, she had to squeeze past Brad, who, when he wasn't making lewd comments, positioned himself where his hands would brush against her.

She filled her days with academics: studying, reading, writing essays. She worked at her chores. The structure was soothing.

She swallowed down the voices that wondered what they would do to her next. Burtonsville was a good school. She forced herself to volunteer in class and the teachers beamed at her and told her how much they appreciated her contributions. She tried to be pleased with the praise. Instead, she was feeling every moment like she was falling, like her heart rate hadn't slowed to normal in weeks.

At least Carrie and Julie hadn't noticed or commented on her appearance. Maybe Claire had been right. Maybe the frequent hair brushing she had taken up made her look normal. Or maybe she was so plain as to be essentially invisible.

Tuesday of the week before Christmas break, she had an AP Lit essay to write, three biology chapters to read for the following day, and an AP Euro article to read. The computer lab was full of tapping and the buzz of printers, but it was the whispers and giggles she found distracting.

Once she finished writing, Temperance crept into a spot she'd found under the stairs on the ground floor of the older, two-story building on campus. She sat against the solid cinder block of the wall, the first steps low over her head. For a moment she felt enclosed, like she had here ever since she'd been locked in the trunk. There was still light, though, and the space opened up with the steps and she'd decided it was cocooning, concealing.

She wasn't going to let the Maxwells take away this safe spot.

It was a while later when she closed her biology book and pulled the photocopied article out of her folder.

"It's getting near time to close up."

She started violently, flinging a hand over her mouth to stifle the shriek that rose in her throat as she scrambled backwards, hitting the wall. She grabbed for her belongings, leapt to her feet, stumbled, and fell against the steps, banging her head against a steel and concrete riser.

A man in coveralls loomed over her, and the institutional fluorescents backlighting him hid his face, making his outline imposing. His hand was on the handle of a mop in a yellow industrial bucket on wheels. His voice, though, was soothing. "It's all right. We all need our quiet spaces."

"How...how did you know I was here?"

"Not much goes on at this school I don't know about." He extended a hand. "Ray Buxley."

"Temperance Brennan," she said automatically. "I've...seen you." She became wary again. Was he following her?

"I tend to be all over," he said with a faint smile. "I'm the custodian, groundskeeper, and whatever else they're calling it these days. I'll be about my business." He gave the mop bucket a shove, sending it scooting a few inches across the worn linoleum. "Just finish what you're doing and head out in the next twenty minutes, all right?"

"I will."

She sat down and made quick work of annotating the article, then gathered her things, put on her coat, and shouldered her backpack. She slipped quietly down the hallway to an exterior door and, as she was pushing it open, looked up to see Mr. Buxley raise a hand. She mimicked his motion. He seemed...kind. Fair. Understanding.

She wasn't sure how to deal with that.

The jog home went smoothly, even though it was mostly dark. The food had already been put away, but there was peanut butter. She gulped a sandwich and an apple.

She still had French and calculus to do. At the doorway of her room, though, Brad stood leaning against the wall. His arms were crossed, and he looked...smug. She shuddered.

"You've been lucky my parents have been around so much."

She stared at her feet. Her skin crawled. Then warmth churned in her stomach, and she gritted her teeth. She was sick of dealing with Brad, tired of his disgusting innuendos and sleezy, narrow-eyed threats. Calculations flew through her mind, and she stepped forward with one foot, grabbed his wrist, and shoved him into the wall, twisting his arm up behind him like Curtis had done to her.

"Back off, Brad, or I'll tell your friends that you're too much of a coward to make a move after over two months." She gave him another shove into the wall, then headed into her room.

She kept waiting for Claire to arrive to punish her, but no one came. She finished her homework, packed her backpack, and set her alarm.

The sheets were cool, the pillow soft, but she didn't fall asleep. Instead her muscles were taut, and her mind ran in frantic circles as she wondered how creative the next punishment might get.

She must have slept, because the next thing she knew her alarm was buzzing, and it was time for her run.

The lack of sleep, the constant vigilance, the lack of good food...it was starting to get to her. Following class discussions was increasingly difficult, and her homework was taking longer than usual. In AP Bio the teacher was explaining cells and DNA and replication. Someone asked a question, and he tried to answer, veering into physics most of the students either hadn't had, but that Temperance had known for over a year, and her mind wandered to dinner.

"One of the ways Planck's Law applies to cellular biology--"

Her attention was back and she blurted, "It's Planck's Constant."

"Excuse me?"

"It's Planck's _Constant_."

Mr. Granger stared at her.

"Planck's _Law_ concerns electromagnetic radiation and thermodynamic equilibrium. Planck's _Constant_ is a measurement of the discrete amount of quantity of physical change in certain particles. I can show the derivation of either on the board if you'd like."

"I think we're fine. Maybe you can do that for AP Physics next year."

Temperance wrinkled her nose. "Do you really think you can teach us quantum mechanics as they apply to biology without even a rudimentary understanding of Planck's Constant? That's terribly limited of you. What's the point of us being here if you're incompetent?"

His mouth had become pinched under his mustache, and he drew himself up to his full height. "That will be sufficient, thank you."

Temperance sniffed. "Fool," she muttered.

"See me after class, young lady, and I don't want to hear any more about it."

She just shook her head. Her notes became sprinkled with an angry commentary about the teacher, written in French. She wondered in passing if he'd ever studied French. When the bell rang, she walked up to his desk and stood, expressionless. Waiting.

"Temperance, are you all right? You're easily one of my best students, but you've been distant lately. Is there anything I can do?"

She stared at him, nonplussed. She’d expected recriminations, not concern.

When she remained silent, he sighed. "All right. I'm giving you a detention for your disrespectful behavior and comments. But, remember, I'm here if you need anything.

She took the pink slip of paper. "Can I go now?" When he nodded, she left.

***

Claire greeted her at the door. "It was so generous of you to come and join us mortals, your majesty," she said, oozing disdain.

As soon as the door closed, Claire slapped her across the face.

It was a surprise every time, how much that hurt. Temperance gripped the sides of her jeans and resisted fighting back.

"I knew you were just a little troublemaker. The school called because you had detention today." Claire slapped her again. "I'll bet all that 'studying' you've been doing has been detention."

Temperance looked at her feet. The pain and the metallic taste of blood were distracting. Distractions were good.

"I always thought this was who you really were." Claire's hand landed solidly on the side of Temperance's head this time. "Good timing, though, I'll give you that. Our useless older son flunked out of college and is coming home, the little piece of shit. So we have to have a room from him. I don't want to deal with your bullshit along with his. And God knows, he doesn't need your holier-than-thou attitude while he figures out his life."

She risked looking up. Claire's expression was practically gleeful. "Where--"

"Do you think I give a good goddamn?" Claire demanded. "You'll go wherever they send you, and more pity to whoever has to deal with your clumsy, lying, self-righteous trouble-making." Claire walked away without a backward glance.

School. What if she couldn't go to the same school? Temperance trembled and gasped for breath. Just like in the trunk. She was trapped. Airless.

And this time she'd done it to herself.

***  
***


	5. Rebuild and Regroup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Temperance's next foster home allows her to earn money, begin college classes, and she has chance encounters with possible networking sources. High school interactions continue to be a problem, especially as an accident causes an injury.

**Rebuild and Regroup**

~December 1992~

Mrs. Dougherty was shaking her head. Temperance could see that even as she stared firmly at the spotless living room carpet. The scents of Windex, Comet, and Pledge clung to her nostrils. Claire had made her scrub every inch of the main floor before Mrs. Dougherty arrived. She tucked her hands under her thighs and held herself perfectly still while Claire described her, outlined her failings, denounced her as disruptive, lazy, rude, clumsy, and just plain trouble.

When the list of faults finally ended, there was a long silence. Temperance curled her fingers, squeezing her legs. Her own breathing sounded loud.

"Well." Mrs. Dougherty's tone and raised eyebrows communicated her disappointment quite clearly.

Temperance flinched.

Mrs. Dougherty ploughed on. "Have you packed your things?"

"Not yet. I haven't had ti--"

"See?" Claire said. "She's just inconsiderate. Now she's going to waste even more of your time."

Mrs. Dougherty shook her head again. "Go pack, Temperance."

Temperance stood but couldn't move. "I need--"

"Speak up. No one can hear you." Claire's voice was grating, piercing.

"Mrs. Maxwell, do you know--"

"Claire. I told you when you first got here: it's Claire."

Temperance cleared her throat but kept her eyes on her toes. "Claire, I need my suitcases to pack. Could you tell me where I could find them?"

"Those ratty old things? We threw those out months ago."

Temperance looked up then. Those had been her parents' suitcases. And her clothes--the ones Claire had deemed unsuitable--had been in them.

"But--"

"They were falling apart, and then bugs got into the storage area." Claire smiled.

Claire couldn't hit her, not in front of Mrs. Dougherty. "Those were _mine_. You had no right!" Temperance stood to her full height and looked down on Claire. "Those belonged to my parents!"

"Temperance, calm down."

Mrs. Dougherty laid a hand on Temperance's arm, but Temperance jerked away. She could feel the heat of blood in her cheeks.

"Temperance, what's done is done. And when there's an infestation, well, I'm sure Mrs. Maxwell did what she had to."

"I'll get you something so you can get on the road." Claire smiled so her teeth showed.

Temperance felt a flutter go through her stomach. That smile made her very nervous.

Claire returned with a handful of black plastic. "These garbage bags should be enough to carry your things. I'll come with you, make sure you don't pick up something of ours. Again."

Temperance gasped, but bit her lip and followed Claire up the stairs. She'd be gone soon. Gone.

Thirty minutes and a bruising pinch to her upper arm later, the bags were knotted and loaded into the trunk of Mrs. Dougherty's Buick--like a Goodwill donation or so much garbage. Brad had emerged from his room to watch her walk down the stairs.

"Good riddance to bad rubbish," he had said, and Temperance wasn't sure if he meant her or her bags of clothes.

On the front walk, Claire grabbed Temperance's shoulder, digging her fingers digging in. Temperance tried to step back, but Claire pulled her in and hugged her tight. "We won't miss you, Temperance," she whispered in her ear. "Especially not for Christmas next week."

Temperance wrenched herself away.

"I hope you're able to make things go better at your next home, Temperance," Claire said at a normal volume. "Try to be less clumsy, more friendly. Good luck."

Then they were in the car, driving away.

 _What if the next family is worse?_ Temperance thought. _What if I can't stay at Burtonsville?_ She clasped her hands tightly in her lap. Stared at them. Counted breaths.

"Temperance," Mrs. Dougherty said.

Temperance didn't look up.

"Temperance, I'm really sorry about this, but we're unable to find a home placement for you on this short notice so near the holidays. There's a group home--"

"Can I keep going to Burtonsville High?"

"Please don't interrupt." Mrs. Dougherty kept glancing from the road over to Temperance. "But, yes. You'll still be at the same school."

Temperance sighed in relief. As long as she could continue doing well in school. All that mattered was finding a way to build a life of her own.

"What I was going to say is that we have a family lined up for the beginning of January, but you'll have to be in the group home as an emergency placement. I hate to put you through that, after what happened last Christmas, but--"

"It's fine," she said, looking at Mrs. Dougherty. "I'm fine. I'll be fine. School starts on January 4th. As long as--"

"I'll be picking you up on the second, after New Year's."

"Good. That'll be good."

"And, Temperance? Please at least _try_ to fit in with this next family? And smile. It helps if you smile."

Temperance stared out the window as the houses flashed past. There was a synchronicity. Last Christmas it was just her and Russ...then just her by New Year's. This year, she was more alone. Patterns. All of the universe has patterns. Anyway, there was plenty of homework over the break. She'd keep busy. Then she'd be with another family and back in school. School would get her out of here.

 

~January 1993~

"Do your parents mind that you stay this late?"

"No."

"Even though it's every day?"

She kept her eyes on her notebook, but it was like she could feel Mr. Buxley's eyes on her, even though that was impossible. "They don't mind."

"Hmm." He used the push-broom all the way down the hallway and back to her spot under the stairs. "You must be smart, and a very good student. You've got all the big books, and you work hard."

She frowned at him and wondered what he wanted from her, then shrugged and said, "Yes. I am very smart."

"You're going to be something when you're all grown up. You're going to be someone important."

Even Temperance could hear the absolute confidence, the certainty in his voice. Without warning, she found tears welling in her eyes and her nose and throat filling. A sob tried to break free from her throat, but she pressed the back of her hand to her mouth and kept it to a whimper. She was shaking all over, and the tears wouldn't stop, and biting her lips hard didn't stop the humiliating tears. She kept her head down as if she was still studying, but her breath was ragged and her shoulders jerked with each inhalation.

Mr. Buxley stood silently. He didn't try to comfort or reassure her. He didn't ridicule her. He just stood there. When the tears had run their course and she'd stopped gulping air, he said calmly, "I'd better finish this wing before it's time to lock up."

She wasn't quite sure how to respond. Her words took her by surprise. "My parents don't know I'm here because they disappeared just over a year ago."

"Disappeared?" His voice was even, calm, without the curiosity she'd become used to hearing when someone found out.

"Yes."

He remained silent, moving from room to room and bringing back trash cans to empty.

"I think... I realize they're very likely dead." She was proud of her matter-of-fact tone. "I mean, after a year, they...they haven't been found, and I haven't heard from them...they're not coming back. I've known that for a while."

"That is the most likely scenario," Mr. Buxley said, matching her calm voice. "And if they're dead, well, death is part of the natural order of things. It's rarely pretty, never easy, but it's natural."

No one else would let her say it. They all tried to make reassurances, pretend things were fine or were going to be fine. Temperance looked at Mr. Buxley and nodded slowly. Her stomach was tight, but she felt free. She hadn't said it out loud before, had thought it might destroy her to say it. But she was fine. She smiled up at the janitor. "Twenty minutes till you lock up?"

"Yep." He pushed his trash bin down the hall on its wheeled cart.

"Thanks, Mr. Buxley."

"Any time."

The jog home was just under three miles, and she arrived half an hour after Mr. Buxley locked up the building. The cold was dry, and she was glad she'd brought her scarf to wrap around her mouth and nose. Still, she gasped at the warm, lasagna-scented air in the house.

She avoided looking at Jasper. Whenever she caught sight of the stuffed dog, she expected the little rat terrier to bark at her or leap forward and shake her pant leg. As amused as the Bradentons were with having their watchdog--former watchdog--positioned just inside the front door, she was surprised they hadn't added a motion-sensor with a recorded bark to complete the effect.

She hung her coat in the coat closet behind the front door and placed her shoes on the rubber mat, even though they were dry this snowless January. She was glad the weather had held. Without her long runs she felt even more trapped. When she could run, run, run away, it was reassuring.

"Temperance?" The floor creaked under footsteps.

"Yes, Mrs. Bradenton?" she replied, picking up her backpack and making a point of looking through it.

"Nora. I told you to call me Nora."

Temperance nodded but remained silent. She'd made that mistake before when she'd accepted the false intimacy names created.

Mrs. Bradenton reached out, and Temperance jerked back. Another step and she'd be trapped against the door. She felt her heart race and couldn't find a place for her eyes or hands to rest.

The woman let her hand drop. "I just wanted to ask you to try and come home earlier while it's still getting dark this early. We want to make sure you're safe." Mrs. Bradenton didn't reach out again, but she smiled.

It seemed like a genuine smile, one with affection, or kindness maybe. Temperance wasn't sure. "Sunset is later every day now. We're past the winter solstice."

"You're right." That smile again. "But we want to keep you safe. That's why we've opened our home to young people like you. We want you to be safe."

Temperance gritted her teeth. She wondered if the Maxwells told themselves the same thing. "I have a lot of homework. My coursework is academically rigorous and geared to prepare me for college. I need the school's resources." She stared at the carpet just behind and to the side of Mrs. Bradenton.

"I can understand that. So how about a compromise? I'll expect you to call if you're going to be home later than eight o'clock, all right?" Mrs. Bradenton smiled again. Her smiles looked genuine, and her tone sounded kind. But so had Claire's at first.

Temperance bit back words. This woman could call Mrs. Dougherty, and she'd end up back in the group home where she'd spent winter break. Those two weeks had been eye-opening. Her movements had been heavily restricted. She'd eaten little, slept on her clothes, and hidden from girls and guards, trying to protect her belongings and safety. There had been no place to do schoolwork. She had no desire to return, so she had no choice but to agree.

Mrs. Bradenton nodded. "We care about you, Temperance. Any time you need a ride, especially if it's too cold or wet to run, or if there's ice, please call us, and we'll pick you up."

"All right." She tried to step past Mrs. Bradenton.

"Temperance? On Sunday afternoon we're having a cocktail party for the vendors and distributors Jake works with. Saturday we need to clean the house, and I'm going to need your help with preparing hors d'oeuvres. I'm making my specialty."

"Yes, ma'am. May I go now? I still have reading to do."

"Of course. We'll start at nine a.m. on Saturday."

***

"You take AP Biology?"

Temperance smiled at Mr. Buxley. "Yes. How did you know?"

"Only class with a green book that size." He emptied another trash can. "You seem to like it."

"I do. I'm learning a lot, and I've been teaching myself extra physiology."

"How's that?" He leaned against his cart.

"I found an old hardcover copy of _Gray's Anatomy_ at a thrift store where we were getting clothes, and I've been memorizing human physiology."

"In your copious spare time?"

She smiled. "Well, yes. Especially on the weekends. And in classes when I'm bored, I start with my toes and mentally recite all the bones, muscles, tendons, and ligaments in the body."

Mr. Buxley chuckled. "I guess that's one way to do it."

"We're dissecting fetal pigs in class right now. In the fall we did cows' eyes and frogs. It's extraordinary how organisms are structured--simultaneously highly resilient and incredibly fragile. The paradoxical nature of it..." She shook her head.

"I see it all the time. One of my jobs is to remove dead animals on school grounds, and some look nearly pulverized, but others look almost perfect, like they just up and died one day."

Temperance leaned forward and opened her mouth. Then she closed it. It was such an opportunity...but what if he thought differently of her?

"If you want," Mr. Buxley said, removing a plastic garbage bag from his cart, "I could save the animals for you, and you could dissect something that wasn't filled with all those chemicals."

Electricity ran through her arms and abdomen. She opened and closed her mouth a few more times before gasping, "Yes. Yes, please. Mr. Buxley, that would be.... very helpful. Just let me know and I'll stay." She wanted to hug him, but didn't think he would appreciate that.

"You're welcome, Temperance. I'm going to get back to work. Make sure you tell me when you're heading out."

"I will." She looked back at her work. It felt odd, now, having somebody understand her. Patterns, though, were ever-present. It seemed life and experience in _all_ their forms were simultaneously resilient and fragile.

***  
 **KP Duty and Official Functions**  
***

Mrs. Bradenton was like a whirling dervish in the kitchen. She set up stations with bowls, pans, recipes, and ingredients. She had Temperance mix one hors d'oeuvre at a time while she spun from station to station, checking and measuring and prepping.

Temperance held the bowls tightly as she mixed, hoping she wouldn't clumsily ruin anything. For each recipe she read the ingredients three times.

Her nerves slowly stilled. There was something soothing about the fiddly work. Roll, press, wrap, roll, dip. Roll, press, wrap, roll, dip. That was the ham balls. Then the cheese ball mixture was about controlling the crumbliness--press, hold, transfer--so they got to the baking sheets and baked to a browned lightness with a surprise kick of cayenne pepper.

Mrs. Bradenton whisked egg yolks and sugar. "Now, Representatives Gutiérrez, Reynolds, and Lipinski will be here. They're new representatives, just sworn in this January."

"Representatives?" The question was out before Temperance could stop herself. She held her breath, waiting, hoping Mrs. Bradenton wouldn't be angry.

"Oh. Of course. This is your first cocktail party here. They're Illinois representatives to the House. In DC."

"Why...?" She bit back this question.

"Why are they coming here?"

Temperance nodded and chanced a look at Mrs. Bradenton, who added lemon and other ingredients to her bowl.

"Jake's job is pretty important. He's the manager of the Ford Assembly Plant in Chicago Heights. It's the oldest continuously-operating Ford plant in North America."

"He must be very good at his job," Temperance offered.

"He is." Mrs. Bradenton smiled and her cheeks, pink from oven heat and movement, appled up. "Anyway, the Ford plant is big business here, and so the various suppliers and distributors want a chance to schmooze with Jake and the other managers, and the representatives want to demonstrate their support for local labor."

Temperance pressed a butter, flour, and nut mixture into the bottom of a baking pan. She didn't know what to say, so she spread pecan bits evenly over it like the recipe said.

"Anyway, us Ford wives take turns throwing parties, and I host several a year." She set her bowl down and stirred the pan on the stove, let the brown mixture pour off her spoon, then nodded. "All right, just bring that pan over here." She poured the liquid over the pecans. "Tilt it to get into that corner...just like that. You're a natural, Temperance."

Temperance took a deep breath. Certainly there must be a family somewhere that was like hers and not so fixated on traditional women's roles.

"Go ahead and put that in the oven. You know, I really appreciate your help. I miss getting to do this with Polly. Some of my best times with her were party prep. If you're interested, you can serve at the party, like Polly did. That's paid help, by the way; we'd pay you just like we did her."

Temperance paused in counting apricots, not sure what the right answer was.

"And if you don't like it this time, you don't have to do it again. All you have to do is carry trays around, offer people hors d'oeuvres, and remember to smile at everyone."

Just like Mrs. Dougherty said. Smiling. "All right," she said tentatively.

They baked and cooked until well past one. There were layer bars: pecan and caramel, apricot and macadamia nut, chocolate and coconut, and lemon. There were the ham balls, cheese balls, bacon-wrapped sausages, miniature onion and cheese quiches. Mrs. Bradenton was counting bottles of alcohol--Mr. Bradenton, she said, played bartender because he missed college--and making a list of what she needed to replenish.

"Everything looks good, Temperance. Those plates you arranged look particularly attractive. You covered them with plastic, right?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Then we're done. The punch gets made tomorrow. Do you have a black skirt and a white blouse?"

"I do, yes."

"Then plan to wear that and we should be good to go." Mrs. Bradenton smiled at her briefly before returning to her counting and list-making.

***

Temperance couldn't remember ever being in a space so full. Mr. Bradenton had moved any unnecessary furniture to the master bedroom or garage, and even so, the house was packed.

Her instructions were clear. Smile. Say hello to everyone. Make eye contact. Offer food. Ask if they're enjoying themselves. Offer drinks. Make eye contact. Smile. She didn't need to converse, just smile, greet, offer food and drink, move around the room, and smile some more. She could do this. She took a deep breath, picked up a tray of hors d'oeuvres, plastered a smile across her face, and moved back into the gathering throng of people.

_"Heard they were going to start the Escort in Europe."_

_"Oh, yes, thank you. Nora's ham balls are the best I've ever had."_

_"Miss? Miss? Could you bring me another Long Island iced tea?"_

_"Hey, Polly! How's it...oh. You're not Polly. Sorry. Could you get me more of those lemon bars? No one makes them like Nora."_

Tray held high, Temperance tried to maneuver around the bodies while sweat dripped down her back. Exhausted, she wended her way through the crowd and set the hors d'oeuvres tray on the sidebar. She hadn't dropped one yet. She scooted around a gaggle of women with punch glasses in their hands. "Mr. Bradenton?"

He held up a finger, nodding to a man wearing a polo shirt. "Well, Luis, it's good to have you in office. Our workers at the plant appreciate your support."

"Thank you."

"Mr. Bradenton? Someone asked for another Long Island iced tea."

"Oh. Why don't you just take the pitcher and offer refills?"

"Yes, sir." She picked up the pitcher and turned into an outstretched hand. She grasped the pitcher from both sides, but the liquid only sloshed and didn't spill.

The man attached to the hand smiled. "I'm Luis Gutiérrez."

She glanced sideways. Mr. Bradenton was already engaged in conversation with another man, and she was not sure what to do. She shifted the pitcher and offered her hand since Mr. Gutiérrez hadn't moved. "Temperance Brennan."

"So, are the Bradentons treating you right?" His grip was firm and even, and he let go after a quick handshake.

"Yes, sir."

"You're awfully young to be serving liquor, aren't you?"

"I--" Temperance looked at Mr. Bradenton again. "I don't know if..."

"It's all right, Luis," Mrs. Bradenton had stepped up behind her.

Temperance jumped, but still didn't spill the pitcher.

Mrs. Bradenton's hand closed around the handle, and she tugged the pitcher gently. "Temperance is our foster daughter. Polly always used to serve everyone, and Jake forgets sometimes that the rules are a bit different."

Temperance reminded herself to smile.

"So how old are you, Temperance?"

"I'm sixteen, Congressman."

"Are you doing well in school?"

"Yes, sir." Temperance stepped away and picked up a tray still piled with lemon bars.

"Temperance is a bona fide genius," Mrs. Bradenton said. "Except for today, I don't think I've ever seen her do anything but study on a weekend. She works very hard."

"Good for you, Temperance," Congressman Gutiérrez said. "A good education is the best building block for life."

"Yes, sir."

"Luis, have you met--" Mrs. Bradenton pointed out another guest and stepped away.

Temperance slipped into the crowd, holding up the tray to avoid spilling. When she found the guests who'd asked for refills, she extended the tray. "Sir? Sir, Mrs. Bradenton is bringing around a pitcher with your drink if you still want a refill."

"Thank you, young lady. I was just telling Mrs. Mitchell here how efficient you are. You have a real memory for faces."

"Sir?"

"Well, this huge crowd here, and I've seen you find every person who's asked you for something and bring exactly what they want."

"That's what I was hired to do, sir."

He laughed. "She's amazing, isn't she?"

Mrs. Mitchell nodded, laughing with him.

Temperance smiled, realizing that every time she remembered to smile, she found the smile had faded and needed to be put back on. "Would you like anything else?" They declined, and she moved around the room again. It had been three hours since the first guests had arrived and she hadn't tripped or dropped anything yet. Four hours to go.

She swapped trays again and saw Mrs. Bradenton. "Did the gentleman by the door get his iced tea?"

"He did, thank you. That was Congressman Reynolds. He was very impressed with you."

She smiled, not sure what she should say. "The ham balls are a big hit."

Mrs. Bradenton's smile got bigger. "You did a great job with my recipe, Temperance. Yours are nearly as good as the ones Polly made, and she had years to perfect her technique." She scanned the room. "Drinks look full. Trays are well stocked. It's back to circulating, I think."

Temperance offered trays to groups of people, moving among the cologne-scented bodies amidst the hum of constant chatter.

_"Have you seen the new green?"_

_"It's not as bad as the F-150 redesign they keep talking about."_

_"I hear there's a deal in the works with Turkey."_

_"Congressman Reynolds sounds like a labor supporter."_

_"I think Congressman Gutiérrez is the union guy._

By the time the last guest left, they were down to a veggie tray and dregs in the bottles, and Temperance wondered about the legal ramifications of the attendees driving after leaving the party. She was distracted from the thought by Mr. Bradenton handing her a black trash bag. It was after eleven by the time the house was tidied, swept, and mopped, and the last piece of furniture was put back in place.

"Whew. That one was a marathon!" Mrs. Bradenton flopped down on the couch. "Temperance, you were like the Energizer Bunny. Just amazing."

Jake popped open a beer and lowered himself into his armchair, which creaked a soft protest. "You ladies were the heart and soul of this party. And the stomach. Thank you both."

Temperance was not sure what internal organs had to do with a party, nor how a party had a "soul," but she was too tired to ponder it.

"Jake." Mrs. Bradenton's eyebrows rose, and she looked from her husband to Temperance and back.

"Right." He shifted, dug in his pocket, and pulled out cash, which he carefully counted off before handing it to her. "Take it. You earned it."

"Temperance, do you want me to pick you up tomorrow and take you to the bank? We can open a savings account for you."

Temperance blinked. "Yes, Mrs. Bradenton. Thank you!" The stack of bills--she'd counted twelve coming off the roll of cash--felt damp and thick between her fingers. They felt like possibility.

"Nora. I told you to call me Nora."

"Good night, Nora," she said, then headed upstairs to shower and fall into bed.

***  
 **S.N.A.F.U.**  
***

Mondays after Bradenton parties were hard. After the second one, Temperance didn't try wake up early, aiming to run only the three miles to school. The previous night's party cleanup had gone till nearly one, and she planned to have a caffeinated soda with lunch. First she had to go to a scheduling appointment at the counselor's office, where she fidgeted in the vinyl-covered chair for a full two minutes before they called her.

"Temperance?"

Mr. Wilson's brown sweater was buttoned around his paunch, and there was a poster behind him of an eagle above a gorge with the caption, _"Setting goals helps you soar toward them."_ She rolled her eyes and sat on the edge of the wooden chair.

"I have my course choices ready," she said without prologue.

"Temperance, I know you're new to Burtonsville--"

She frowned at him. "You met with me in October. Don't you remember?" Perhaps his memory was poor.

"Yes. I remember. Ms. Kunaki programmed you, but you're part of my case load this year. I know your circumstances are...trying, and that your living situation changed in the middle of the year. I hoped you'd come and see me if you needed something."

She stared at him, but he remained silent. She tensed. "I would've come if I'd needed something. But I didn't."

"Are you sure, Temperance? Because there've been some concerns about you."

"Why?" She narrowed her eyes, feeling defensive, although there was nothing she'd done that should make any school authority unhappy.

"You keep to yourself. You haven't joined any activities. Instead of becoming part of the school community, your teachers say you're even more withdrawn than when you arrived. Mr. Granger said you won't even work with a lab partner."

"Why is any of that the school's concern? I'm often up late doing homework, and I get up early to run. That leaves little time for activities."

"That's true--"

"There are an odd number of students in AP Bio. Someone has to work alone. I need to do well in school. My work is exemplary, as are my grades."

"Temperance, we just want to make sure that you don't need any assistance integrating into Burtonsville High. And, with students in your situation, we want to check that you have resources and are safe."

Temperance snorted at that.

Mr. Wilson sighed. "Also, you're going to need more than excellent grades--"

"Wait. Isn't it your job to make sure your students are successful?"

"That is certainly part of--"

"And I am academically successful, right?"

"You are."

"Then I suggest you don't concern yourself with my social life." She clenched her jaw so hard the muscles in her face ached.

Mr. Wilson rubbed a hand over his bald spot, leaving the few hairs sticking up. "All right."

She blew out a breath. "Thank you."

"But, like I was saying, you might want to consider joining some activities that you can included on your applications next year. You're well on your way to being valedictorian of your class--or at least salutatorian--and I'm sure you'll be able to win numerous scholarships. If you can list activities on your applications, you'll be an even more favorable candidate."

Temperance still felt like she was doing battle, and she couldn't decide if Mr. Wilson was on her side or...something else. She looked around the room at the stacks of folders on every surface, including the floor. Her life's story, the way people formed opinions about her, had been reduced to papers in a file like this.

"What do you suggest?" She tried to sound confident, but the question came out in the small voice she'd learned to use with Claire.

"Well, you said you run. Cross country started last week. You could see if they're looking for team members. There are academic groups, too: chess club, astronomy club, history club..." He held out a piece of paper. "Here's the list of the extra-curricular activities and their sponsors.

Temperance forced herself to meet his eyes and smile. "I'll look into those. Thank you."

He nodded and pulled out a paper. With a smile he said, "Tell me about the schedule you've got in mind."

They were done in less than two minutes and she didn't even had to argue for her five AP classes.

As she tucked the course selection sheet in her backpack, he said, "If you'd be more comfortable with someone else, any of the counselors can help you. Please come to one of us if you need anything."

"I will." She stood and left.

It was honest. She'd come if she needed them...and believed they could help. Of course, they couldn't, and she wouldn't.

 

~April 1993~

Temperance crammed herself against the under side of the stairs. She was glad these weren't the kind of steps with gaps for risers, since that meant no one would be able to see her.

She counted her breaths like she had in the trunk of the Maxwells' car. In and out. In and out.

She counted the beige tiles between the blue lines that transected the hallway. Distractions were good.

She pressed her shoulder blades against the cinder block wall, wishing it would hurt. She felt like a train speeding out of control, like the rest of the world had slowed around her. Nine beige tiles. Two blue tiles. Nine more beige. Distractions were good.

Evelyn had sounded like a wounded animal, lying on the tennis court alternately keening and whimpering. The sound ran on a continuous loop in Temperance's head, along with the comments she'd heard before she backed away and run.

_"Morticia hit her with her racquet."_

_"Oh my God, she killed Evelyn!"_

_"She must like dead things so much she's trying to make her own."_

She'd gone back and watched from a distance as an ambulance arrived and EMTs loaded Evelyn. Then she'd grabbed her backpack and fled before the students saw her. Since P.E. was her last class of the day, the building emptied rapidly after the bell ten minutes later. The pounding of stampeding feet and the rushing noise of chatter and gossip died out, but the pounding of her heart continued.

She didn't think Evelyn would die, but it was clear she was badly injured. At least some of the students thought she'd hurt Evelyn deliberately. It was possible that she'd be disciplined. There was no one to stand up for her, and if it became her word against someone else's...she had only her academic record to speak for her. What if they expelled her?

She counted her breaths, trying to time each inhalation to ten beats of her pounding heart. She needed to focus on something else. She pulled out her calculus book. There were fifteen problems to do tonight. Maybe the structure and logic of math would calm her.

Maybe she could finish one last assignment before they took her away again.

She gripped her pencil tightly enough that her hand wouldn't shake and leaned close to copy the first problem. It took only two steps, both done in her head, to complete the problem. She wrote down the steps carefully, making sure her numbers and letters were neat. Math teachers insisted on work being shown, and, although she didn't need to write out her work most of the time, she understood the importance of ensuring academic honesty. The next problem required six steps, as did the following five. As she was copying number eight from the book, she heard footsteps nearing.

She froze. Her stomach knotted up again, and she began to tremble. Instinctively pressing her back tighter against the cinderblock wall, she dropped pencil. It clattered, and she bit her lip.

The footsteps came nearer. Nearer still.

Then work boots appeared.

Her muscles were locked in place. The idea of looking up, of seeing the disappointment on Mr. Buxley's face...it was too much. She squeezed her eyes closed.

"Temperance?"

She didn't think he sounded angry, but she could be wrong.

"Temperance? Come on. Everyone's worried about you. I told them I'd try looking."

She chanced glancing at him. Mr. Buxley didn't look angry.

"I didn't tell them where you were." His voice was soft. "Come on. It'll be all right." He gestured for her to come out. "Bring your things. Come on."

Her movements were jerky as she packed away her folders and books, tucked her pencil in the pencil pocket, and dragged her backpack out from under the stairs so she could stand. She settled her pack over her shoulders and clicked closed the front clasp in case she needed to run, then she followed Mr. Buxley. Panic rose higher in her chest and throat as she saw his path was leading them to the office.

He opened the door and said, "I found her. She's okay." He held the door for her, and she saw the principal, the assistant principal, Mr. Wilson, the Bradentons, Mrs. Dougherty, and her P.E. teacher waiting for her. Her breaths shortened to gasps, and she tried to back up, but Mr. Buxley had stepped behind her. "Go on, Temperance. It's okay," he said quietly, standing firm.

Her eyes were burning before she was through the door, and before she could stop herself she was saying, "I didn't mean to hurt her. We were playing doubles. I called the ball, I really did. Maybe she didn't hear me, or I wasn't loud enough, because she got in front of me after I'd started swinging. I didn't mean to hurt her. I didn't want to hurt her. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to. Please. Please, I'm so sorry." She started to sob and sat abruptly, burying her face in her knees. She was never sure whether or not she said aloud the refrain echoing in her head. "Please don't hurt me."

***  
 **Section Eight**  
***

Temperance balled her hands into fists. Her head ached. She hadn't moved in fifteen minutes. She only stared at the man opposite her. He was in his late 30s, had light brown hair that was thinning, had blue eyes behind thick-lensed glasses, and slouched in the manner of someone with poor fitness. A yellow legal pad lay atop crossed legs, and he twirled a pen in his left hand.

She hated him. She hated being here.

"Temperance, I can tell you don't want to be here, but these sessions are mandatory. Mrs. Dougherty and the Bradentons are concerned about you."

"There's nothing wrong with me."

Dr. Allen shifted in his chair. "I tend to doubt that. Your family abandoned you nearly a year and a half ago--"

"You don't know that." Her response was quick, defensive.

"Oh?" He looked at her the same way she imagined she looked at the viscera of a raccoon. "It's certainly clear that your brother abandoned you."

Her tear ducts contracted, and she looked at the floor, blinking rapidly. The memory of Russ driving away was one she tried to avoid. She raised her eyes, looked just past Dr. Allen's ear, and kept her voice flat. "No one knows what happened to my parents. Given the blood found in their car, it's possible that their disappearance was the result of foul play."

"All right, well, your parents disappeared, which is upsetting in and of itself. It would be natural for you to fear that they left you intentionally, but it would be equally upsetting to fear that they were killed."

"We don't _know_ that they're dead!" She lifted her chin. She would not concede a thing to him, no matter how reasonable.

"Really?" Dr. Allen raised a quizzical eyebrow. "What other explanation do you have for their lack of contact?"

Temperance's jaw ached. She stared at him, avoiding expression.

"These are very upsetting events. Losing the closest people in one's life is a life-altering event for anybody, but especially for a young woman just beginning to get a sense of who she is in the world. You're at a critical age, in the midst of the turmoil of that age, and I suspect you've had very little assistance in processing those events."

"I don't need help 'processing.' I'm doing fine." When she stated facts impassively, some students called this her "robot voice."

"Temperance." Dr. Allen's voice was soft, like Mr. Buxley's had been when he retrieved her from under the stairs. "You're continuing to be successful in school, but you don't seem to be doing very well personally. You have very little contact with others. Would you like to talk about how you feel about that?"

She shrugged. "It's who I am. Anyone who knew me would tell you so."

"Ah." Dr. Allen made some notes on his pad.

"What does that mean?"

He set his pad aside and leaned forward. His face looked gentle, and his voice was as well. "I think your main social interactions occurred within the nuclear family that dissolved last year. I think that, without that focal point, you've been...at loose ends, and that you've detached yourself from these painful feelings, suppressed your reactions, and focused on your intellect, your academic ability: the characteristics that have earned you acceptance outside of your family. I think you fear that your only value to anyone is in what you're able to do."

Temperance felt the now-familiar pressure on her chest and in her throat, but the heat in her cheeks was pure rage. She glared at Dr. Allen. How _dare_ he? How dare he poke around in her life, talk about her, hypothesize about her? What did he know of any of it? And no matter how close to home his statements fell, what could she do about any of it? The reality was that this was how things were, and talking, especially to him, wasn’t going to change anything.

He was still talking. "I think you're unwilling to form close bonds with anyone new for fear of being abandoned again."

"I'm not afraid."

"The Bradentons think you are. They told Mrs. Dougherty they're concerned you've been mistreated."

Her heart rate spiked. Her gaze flitted around the room. She wanted to run, but forced herself to sit perfectly still.

He leaned forward again. "Temperance, is anyone hurting you?"

Relief flooded through her, and she laughed. It sounded barking, bitter, even to her ears. "No." She shook her head, made and held eye contact. "No one is hurting me."

"They were very concerned after the incident at school. They said you seemed panicked, afraid of how you might be punished after the other girl was injured."

"It was frightening," she said, holding her voice even. "The ambulance came. She had to go to the hospital. She's a very popular girl, and many of the students were angry at me. However, all the adults understood that I didn't mean to hurt Evelyn, and she even wrote me a note to tell me she held 'no hard feelings' against me."

"So you weren't afraid of reprisals?"

"Everyone was very reasonable and reassuring."

Dr. Allen stared at her. Studied her, more like. Finally he said, "I'd like to see you at least three more times."

"Why?" The muscles in her arms, back, legs, and hands tensed even more. She forced herself to remain seated.

"You appear to be handling the aftermath of this incident well enough. I hope that if anyone treats you badly, you'll speak to the adults in your life. I'm concerned that you may become more and more detached from life and other people." He glanced up at her then wrote on his legal pad. "I believe that these maladaptive coping strategies you're leaning on are setting you up for a dramatic crash that could be dangerous."

"You mean...you think I might hurt someone?"

"Well," he said, shrugging, "you have once already."

"That was _an accident_. I told you." She did stand up then and began pacing the room. "And these 'maladaptive coping strategies' are who I've always been."

"All the more reason for me to be concerned. It's unhealthy for a young woman to engage in such atypical social refusal, even after a trauma." He scribbled another note. "Yes. I think we have a great deal to talk about. I'll see you next week." He stood and opened the door as she paced near it.

Temperance glared at him, then she stalked through. At Dr. Allen's gesture, Mrs. Bradenton stood and joined him. Temperance plunked into one of the waiting room chairs, aware she looked the part of a sulky teenager. She knew it didn't help her case at all, but she couldn't get out of this anyway, it seemed. Words floated through the door. _"Abandonment issues... Emotionally shut down... Dissociative response... Intellect as shield..."_ Her muscles quivered with fury as her cheeks burned.

She sifted through the magazines, but there was no distraction to be found in _Highlights, Seventeen, Parenting,_ or _American Girl_. She flipped through _Popular Mechanics_ , but the main story was about an actor who played an incompetent carpenter on a sitcom, and the other stories seemed to have a similar lack of depth.

The door opened, and Mrs. Bradenton shook Dr. Allen's hand, "Thank you for your help, Doctor. I know you want what's best for Temperance. You'll send your report to Mrs. Dougherty?"

"I will. I'll see you next week, Temperance."

Temperance couldn't bring herself to wave back. He might see that her fingernails, short as they were, had carved deep crescents into her palms.

"Come on, Temperance. We need to go to the grocery store and get home to make dinner." Mrs. Bradenton gestured to the door, and Temperance stood, forcing her hands open one finger at a time. "How does roast chicken with vegetables sound?"

"Good, but it'll take a long time. It's already five," Temperance said.

"Good point. We'll get the stuff for that and have it tomorrow. I think burgers, cottage cheese, and salad tonight." She unlocked the car.

"I could make the salad."

"That sounds great. You pick up the produce and I'll get the meat and staples. Deal?"

Temperance nodded as she fastened her seatbelt.

"Temperance."

Mrs. Bradenton sounded serious, and Temperance felt a chill wash through her. She focused on the evergreen-tree shaped cardboard on the floor. The car still smelled of its pine scent. She swallowed. After Dr. Allen's assessment, after she'd injured Evelyn, Mrs. Bradenton and her husband would surely send Temperance away. She'd have to add their name to the bottom of her old running shoe, in the list she'd learned at the girls' home. She might be placed there permanently, or with a family even worse than the Maxwells. It might be located somewhere that meant she had to change schools.

"Temperance, look at me."

She turned her head. She couldn't force herself to meet Mrs. Bradenton's eyes.

"After what Dr. Allen said--" Mrs. Bradenton began.

Temperance looked away.

"I was thinking about how amazingly brilliant you are and how that must make it hard to connect to other high schoolers. How would you feel about taking university classes over the summer? I mean, I know academics are important to you, and you might even find some actual peers there. We could talk to Jake tonight."

Temperance stared. "You're not sending me...you'd..." She paused, thought, then looked down again. "There's no way to pay for that."

"Jake and I are doing just fine, and you have a state stipend each month that, if we need, can help cover your classes. I'll get a copy of the registration information for Elmhurst College's summer session."

"I...I don't know what to say." Temperance blinked back tears and took a deep breath, no longer able to smell the evergreen air freshener. She wanted to hope, but being beholden to the Bradentons was dangerous. "Thank you for the suggestion. But...I don't want you to take me and pick me up."

"Oh, don't worry about that. Polly didn't take her bike to college, and she's doing an internship this summer in Bloomington, so she won't need it. We'll make sure the bike is in good working shape, and you'll get yourself there." Mrs. Bradenton pulled into a parking space, put the car in park, and smiled.

She'd thought this through, and Temperance could see there would be no getting out of it. And it beckoned to her. "Mrs. Braden--"

"Nora."

She would have to be vigilant, cautious in case the Bradentons demanded repayment. But...college. Foolish hope rose within her. "Nora. I--I can't think of a way I'd rather spend my summer."

***  
 **Unit Cohesion**  
***

Mr. Buxley always worked on his own tasks while Temperance was dissecting. Sometimes he sharpened tools, sometimes he organized his workshop, sometimes he filled out paperwork.

"Where did you find this one?" she asked as she prodded the remains of a raccoon with a gloved finger.

"Where you think?" He grinned.

She had to admit, she enjoyed this game they played too. It was the kind of challenge her father would have issued. "There are burrs in the pads of the feet, and I doubt a wild animal would leave those for long, so wherever it died--"

"Rocky."

"Excuse me?"

"I like to name 'em." The groundskeeper smiled at her from behind a disassembled string trimmer.

"It would be unprofessional for me to personify my subject," Temperance said. Russ would have chuckled at her seriousness, but Mr. Buxley only nodded. "Wherever it died," she continued, "I suspect it was near the edge of the woods. Most burrs are found on low-growing plants under tree cover or in open fields, and while we have the former on campus, we don't have the latter."

"I don't think I could fool you if I tried, Temperance. I did find it just inside that stand of trees past the baseball diamond."

She smiled. She positioned the animal and secured it, then made her first cut. She wondered how different this process was with quality instruments. At least she'd been lucky enough to find a set of beginner-quality instruments at a thrift store, so she had two hemostats, tweezers, scissors, a probe, and a knife she'd carefully sharpened on a tiny whetstone. It was more than she'd hoped for when she went searching.

"Necropsy on male juvenile raccoon weighing approximately ten pounds. The animal has been dead a relatively short period of time. Rigor is still present, and there is little bloating. The odor released upon making the initial incision was not heavily laden with decay." She recited the components of each system as she examined it, carefully detaching organs and blood vessels by separating the connective tissues. When she was done with the body cavity, she removed the furry skin from the underlying muscle and skeletal structures.

Mr. Buxley approached with a paper bag. "Looks like you're about ready for this."

"Thank you, Mr. Buxley." She set the skin on the bag, fur down, and lay the removed organs onto the pelt. She smiled at him, returned to the muscle-covered skeleton, and began detaching the tendon insertion points, adding the muscles one at a time to the pile as she named the corresponding human muscles.

"Temperance?"

She looked up.

"It's getting late. Nearly ten after seven now, and I want you to be able to get out of here and home on time. Think you can finish up tomorrow?"

She made one more cut. Her knife was going to need sharpening again. "That's the last major skeletal muscle. Would you mind if I kept the skeleton here until tomorrow so I can disarticulate it?"

"I'll be here." He smiled.

Temperance didn't understand why students she sometimes overheard considered Mr. Buxley "creepy" or "unfriendly." She placed her instruments in a pile. "I'll just get this put--"

"No, you go on home, Temperance. I'll be glad to take care of it...and I'll make sure the skeleton isn't moved or dried out."

"Thank you, Mr. Buxley." She peeled off her gloves. He had supplied a whole box the first time he let her know he had a specimen for her. It was thoughtful of him. She looked at the remains of the raccoon. "Mr. Buxley?"

"Yes, Temperance?"

"Where do you think the raccoon went?"

"I don't follow."

"It was alive and then it was dead. And I'm pretty sure, based on the reading I've done, that the extra mucus, thickened foot pads, and what appeared to be bleeding from swelling on the brain, probably indicate distemper. And...it was alive, probably in pain, and then it was dead. All vertebrates ultimately die from a lack of oxygen to the brain."

Mr. Buxley nodded.

"But...do you think, like some people do, that what made the animal _itself_ continues in some form, or does it stop with the body? And what makes an animated, living body _think_ and have a personality?"

"I don't expect anyone really knows that, Temperance. A whole lot claim they know, but I suspect their guess is as good as anyone else's...and as worthless as anyone else's."

It was her turn to nod.

"Some people find comfort in their religion or faith. Me, what I know is that death is a natural process. Things are born. Things live. Things die. When we're done with Rocky here--"

She cocked her head at him. "The _subject_ ," she corrected.

He grinned. "Your _subject_ here, I'll make sure he's buried deep enough not to disrupt anyone's life, not to get anyone else sick, and to let him return to be that 'food for worms' Shakespeare kept writing about."

Her forehead ached. She tried not to frown so hard as she reflected. "Do you think there are raccoons who lived near him who miss him or know he's dead?"

"There could be. I know I've seen squirrels--and they're not as smart as raccoons--I've seen a dead squirrel on the road with another shoving at it, trying to get it to wake up and come along."

The mental image of the squirrel trying to prod its dead comrade made Temperance's chest hurt.

"Those of us still alive, it's a natural part of life to miss those who are gone...even if they're not dead, we miss what's changed. That's just...part of life." He clapped a hand on her shoulder. "Go home, Temperance. Have a good dinner and finish up that novel you told me you were reading in English."

" _To the Lighthouse_. I'm finding the non-linear storytelling quite difficult to follow. So, you're right, I'd better get to work on it. Good night, Mr. Buxley." She clicked the front strap on her backpack.

He raised a hand, and then she was jogging home in the waning light of the late spring day.

***

The first truly warm day of May came late that year. All the daffodils were still in bloom, and she'd been prolonging her runs in order to breathe in the hyacinth and forsythia. With the extended hours of Daylight Savings Time, Mrs. Braden- _Nora_ didn't expect her home until nine or nine-thirty, but she enjoyed her morning run. Getting to school had become a joy, and she caught herself, on occasion, smiling spontaneously, which she hadn't done since her parents' disappearance.

The morning's run had been particularly pleasant, and she headed down the hallway, her good mood unfazed by the noise and jostling of other teenagers. Her breathing evened out before she turned down the hall to her locker.

A voice floated through the morning commotion. "Andy, man, are you _sure_ you want to mess with her?"

"What do you mean?"

"Dude, don't you remember Morticia breaking Evelyn's jaw with that tennis racquet?"

Temperance shuddered. They were talking about her.

"Yeah. Her mouth is _still_ wired shut. She's totally going to miss cheerleading for the rest of the year."

"Wow. That's intense."

"So...are you sure you want to do this?" There was an awkward pause as the boys saw her. The whole hallway fell silent as other students stopped talking and turned to watch.

"Hi, Temperance."

She wasn't sure who'd said her name, but then Andy waved, awkwardly. He'd been her partner in French for several speaking activities. "Hi?"

"Beautiful morning, isn't it?."

"Yes." Everyone was looking at her. Confused and uneasy, Temperance turned to her locker.

Taped to the door was a Smurf.

"Andy, is this from you?"

He nodded, a flicker of something she couldn’t quite identify in his eyes.

"You remembered from French class that I liked..." Her voice trailed off as she took a step closer. There was no yellow of long hair. She pulled the toy down and saw clearly the oversized glasses of Brainy Smurf. When she turned, Andy had taken several steps back, and the entire group laughed. Several pointed.

Temperance's face burned with humiliation.

Echoes of "Brainy Brennan" and "ridiculous" along with more laughter followed her as she ran for the doors and the fresh air of what had been a beautiful day.

***  
 **Making the Grade**  
***

Temperance sat down in the cramped cubicle opposite the registration advisor. She held out her envelope.

The woman, who wore a neat suit and whose name plate read "Lorena Ochoa," paged through her application and transcripts.

Temperance read over the summer catalog for the tenth time.

"Well, Ms. Brennan, you're in the system and have been processed for summer coursework. What class would you like to take?" Ms. Ochoa made eye contact and held a pen at the ready.

Temperance shook her head. "Class? No, I've chosen four class _es_ to take."

Ms. Ochoa pressed her lips together and shook her head. "This is your first time in a college setting, Ms. Brennan. I can see from your transcripts that you're motivated and eager, but the transition to college is more than most students are ready for, and the condensed nature of the summer semester makes that an even greater concern. We don't want our students to become overwhelmed."

Temperance's pulse spiked. She set her jaw. "Overwhelmed? Did you even _read_ my transcripts just now? I had _five_ AP classes this year _and_ Latin. I got a five on my AP US History exam last year. I have the highest GPA in my school even though this is my third high school. What could possibly lead you to be concerned that I wouldn't be prepared for introductory coursework at a _junior_ college?"

"Like I said, this is just policy. We only allow high school students to take one class in their first semester. Which of the classes are you most interested in?"

"I'm _most interested_ in _all_ of my classes."

"You're going to have to choose one, Ms. Brennan."

Temperance bit back indignant words. A year ago she wouldn't have hesitated to make her demand. Six months ago to do so would have ensured her face would be stinging from the impact of Claire's hand.

But the words her mother would have said sprang to mind, and since her mother wasn't there to say them, Temperance would have to.

She sat up straighter and looked Ms. Ochoa in the eye. "I want to speak to your supervisor."

***

Temperance climbed into the Explorer and fastened her seatbelt. When the truck didn't start, she looked up to find Nora watching her.

"Well? Can I see your schedule?"

Temperance handed it over.

"Three intro classes. Psychology, Sociology, and Anthropology," Nora read. Her eyebrows rose. "They let you take three?"

Temperance nodded.

"They never let Polly take that many in the summer."

"I had to show them my transcripts and point out that I've been successful in all five AP classes and Latin this year."

Nora nodded and smiled. "If that wouldn't convince them, nothing would. I'd say you won that round." Nora started the truck.

Temperance nodded. "They wouldn't let me take Human Physiology, even though I took half the class as a sophomore and memorized most of the information on my own. So the introductory courses don't seem like much."

"Well, you've got to start somewhere." Nora turned on the signal.

Despite having three instead of four classes, Temperance's chest and belly fluttered with excitement. Real college classes. She was taking real college classes.

Nora parked outside the psychiatrist's tired office building. "I know you hate this, but Mrs. Dougherty made the visits mandatory. Sometimes you've just got to jump through hoops."

Temperance gritted her teeth.

"I know Dr. Allen's not a good fit for you, but he's the only state-approved counselor near us."

"I know." Temperance stared at her hands and nodded. "Nora?" She took a deep breath and spoke quickly, "Thank you for paying for the classes."

"You're welcome." Nora placed a hand lightly on Temperance's shoulder.

"You didn't have to." Temperance looked up, and she saw that Nora was smiling softly.

"I know. We didn't have to become foster parents either. But it's a way we can help pass on our good fortune." Nora looked at the door. "Go on. The sooner you get in, the sooner you'll be done."

When the office door latched behind her a few minutes later, Dr. Allen greeted her brightly. "Good afternoon, Temperance. Do you have anything you'd like to talk about?"

She rolled her eyes and followed him into his office.

 

~August 1993~

That summer passed much faster than the previous one. The apparent discrepancy between the absolute physics of the passage of time on Earth and the relative perception of it was something Temperance pondered on her rides to and from classes.

As soon as the school year was over summer classes had started. The reading and homework were quick to finish, and the discussions of the material were engaging. Time seemed to pass more quickly while she was doing class work. The older students were distant, but that was often the case in classes, and since the instructors were pleased with her, she didn't mind.

At least she was free of the waste of time that was counseling. Nora had believed her when she said she'd forgotten the two appointments in a row she missed with Dr. Allen, and even Mrs. Dougherty took it as a sign that she didn't need his services if she was forgetful about attending.

She continued to help Nora cook, prepare for, and serve at the Bradenton's cocktail parties, and her bank account held over a thousand dollars--enough to cover the application fees at several universities. In her free time she researched colleges and programs in preparation for applying.

In August she turned in her last paper and took her last exam. Each evening, when the sun got low in the sky, she ran five to eight miles with Burtonsville's cross country team as part of August training. When she was running, it was like she slipped out of real time and into a separate system for counting the forward progress of the universe. She wondered sometimes at that feeling. She knew time continued to exist, but she felt apart from it, somewhere her breath sounds and the slap of her feet on the ground measured this other sort of time.

A week after her last exam Temperance was stepping off the bus, organizing her locker, and following her schedule for the first day of her senior year.

At the end of the day she filled her backpack with the textbooks she'd been issued and walked to the groundskeeper's workshop. Before she could knock Mr. Buxley opened the door and extended his hand.

"Welcome back, Temperance." His handshake was warm and firm. "Come see what I've got for you."

She followed him in, and he pulled back a tarp to reveal two terrariums. One held a field mouse nibbling on a kernel of corn with a spider's web strung across the corner and a wolf spider perched in the middle of the web. The other terrarium had rocks and a snake curled up on the flat rock under a lamp.

A flutter ran through her. "Mr. Buxley! I-- I don't know what to say." She walked slowly toward the terrariums, keeping her movement steady, and watched the animals.

"That's a garter snake I found this summer. Almost cut him in half with the mower. I didn't think he'd eat, but he's been real fond of the crickets I've brought him. Little Mickey Mouse there, he's been willing to eat as well, especially corn and peanuts. I was really hoping they'd take to captivity so I could share them with you. Thought you could use some pets."

She swallowed a lump in her throat as she watched the twitching nose of the tiny rodent. "Look at his bright eyes. You've kept him very healthy. And the micro-contractions of his facial muscles that twitch his nose and whiskers indicate that he's curious instead of afraid. They're beautiful." Her cheeks ached from smiling by the time she looked up and extended her hand again. "Thank you, Mr. Buxley."

"You're very welcome, Temperance."

"I've got to get going. I have cross country."

"Oh, you're running this year?"

She nodded.

"Well, I know you'll knock 'em dead." He raised a hand in farewell as she left.

***

It was eight school days later when she arrived home to find a tan Buick in the driveway. Chills washed through her before a name rose to the surface. Mrs. Dougherty. That was Mrs. Dougherty's car.

The Bradentons were at the kitchen table when she opened the front door. Jake was never home from work this early. As soon as Temperance stepped inside, she saw Mrs. Dougherty. The social worker was sitting in Temperance's spot and fidgeting with a coffee cup.

"Ah, Temperance! I'm glad you're home."

Nora stood at her husband's words. When she turned around, Temperance thought the smile on her face looked...wrong, somehow. Nora spoke quickly. "Let's all sit in the living room, shall we?"

Temperance put her backpack on the floor and sat on the edge of the floral sofa, her hands in her lap while her teeth ground together. "What's wrong?" she asked, forcing words past her tight throat.

All three spoke at once.

"Temperance, we're so very sorry," from Nora.

"We have a very exciting opportunity," from Jake.

"I'm sure you're going to be very happy in your new placement," from Mrs. Dougherty.

Temperance heard the rest of the conversation as though from a great distance, like the chaos of overlapping voices at the cocktail parties. Their voices slowed down, and the sounds echoed off the walls as though the syllables were rubber balls.

_"Jake has gotten a prestigious promotion..."_

_"We'll be relocating to İzmit, Turkey."_

_"You see, of course, that the Bradentons can't turn down an opportunity like this, and I've made sure you can stay at Burtonsville."_

_"We made Mrs. Dougherty promise to find a good home for you."_

_"The company is letting me take the lead in the European Escort launch at the Otosan plant."_

_"I'm sure you'll do fine in your new home. The Bradentons said you've been very personable with them."_

Time speeded back up, and Temperance heard it rushing through her ears. It whistled like winter wind off Lake Michigan at first, then became louder and louder until it resembled a jet engine whining at full speed. The last things she heard Nora and Jake say ricocheted inside her skull--or would have, if they could--while she packed her belongings into black trash bags.

_"We're sorry we didn't think to get you luggage."_

She carried the two bags to the living room, holding tight to keep them from slipping from sweaty palms. She retrieved her winter coat from the hall closet, and stood silently, waiting, heart pounding.

Mrs. Dougherty stood up first. "Looks like you're all set. Say goodbye, Temperance."

"Goodbye, Mr. and Mrs. Bradenton. I appreciate all you've done for me." Her mouth was dry, and she knew her voice was flat. She couldn't bring herself to look at them. Terror gnawed at her. The next home could be worse than the Maxwells.

"It's been great to get to know you, Temperance." Jake extended his hand, but Temperance picked up her bags and walked toward the door.

"Take care of yourself, Temperance. I'll miss you."

She walked past Nora and heard Mrs. Dougherty apologizing behind her. She stood by the trunk of the Buick, staring at her toes, trying not to wonder where she was going. There was no point in asking. It wouldn't make any difference.

Mrs. Dougherty yanked the trunk open. "Temperance, that was rude. The Bradentons have been especially kind to you."

Temperance put her bags in the trunk, walked to the passenger door, and stood there silently, one hand on the handle. She didn't wave as they drove away.

***  
***


	6. Name, Rank, Serial Number

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Temperance's last foster home before graduation is distant and structured, helpful as she applies for college, internships, and scholarships in order to plan for her future.

~October 1993~

"Becky, why is the filter paper crushed here?"

Temperance's lab partner shrugged. "It wouldn't fit into the cone."

Temperance sighed and took the paper back out. "That's because you didn't trim this corner off. See the picture there?"

"Oh."

"Becky, this is what it means by folding it _carefully_." She refolded the circle so the edges met. "If the paper doesn't fill the funnel, it's easier for it to overflow."

This was the third lab of the year, and Temperance was careful to reach for all the glassware first; Becky had broken three pieces already. Temperance found frustrating the tendency of teachers to pair students up alphabetically rather than ability. It was clear that Becky had no aspirations in science, which was good, since the girl had neither talent nor skill.

Temperance, on the other hand, planned to be a scientist.

It was with that in mind that she'd been preparing college applications. This course, like the rest of her senior schedule, was carefully chosen to appeal to the institutions she hoped to attend. She had written over a dozen college essays, had requested teacher and counselor recommendations, had obtained transcripts from all three high schools she had attended, and had filled out form after form after form. Nothing was going to ruin her chance at the education she had worked for, the one that her parents would have chosen for her.

"Becky, just watch me and take notes. I'll tell you what numbers to write down." _And I'll write them down myself, just in case she messes that up too._

"All right." Becky sat on the lab stool and leaned one elbow on the black counter.

Temperance measured the mixture of sand and salt, read off the numbers, wrote them on her own lab sheet, then poured the mixture into a beaker. She recorded the mass of another beaker and placed it under the funnel.

"Becky, could you get the distilled water?"

"Hey, Andy," Becky called. "You done with the distilled water? Could you bring it here?"

Temperance looked away as Andy Pflueger walked over.

"Anything for Tempe here," he said.

"I told you not to call me that." She turned on him and he took a step back. She took the jug out of his hand.

"Thanks, Andy." Becky turned to Temperance. "You should be nicer to him, Morticia. Everyone said you got all upset about that Smurf thing, but Andy's a nice guy. He really likes you, too. I can tell."

"We're in the middle of a lab, Becky." Temperance measured out water and poured it into the beaker with the sand mixture.

"So? It's not like it's hard for you or anything."

"I'm going to focus on my lab work now." She stirred in salt until it was dissolved and poured the mixture into the funnel, rinsing the residue out of the beaker. After the water passed through the filter and she had set the filter paper in the drying oven, she turned on the Bunsen burner and placed the second beaker on a wire mesh on a ring stand. She watched the liquid carefully.

"I love these gas flames," Becky said, resting her chin in both hands to watch. "You know what they say, though. A watched beaker never boils."

Temperance frowned. "It's not supposed to boil. The procedure says to heat _gently_. If we were to boil the liquid, we might invalidate our results."

"Brainy Brennan," Becky muttered, rolling her eyes.

Temperance gritted her teeth and adjusted the flame.

***

After cross country practice Temperance stayed in her running clothes, retrieved her backpack, and jogged home.

She glanced at the entrance to the forest preserve as she went past. She'd have to leave early for a few days to look for an animal to dissect. It had been eight weeks since school started, and Mr. Buxley hadn't found anything since the first week. She'd visited her snake and mouse, had fed flies to the spider, but hadn't had a chance to practice a new scalpel technique she'd read of. She didn't want to get rusty.

It was still light when she approached the ivy-covered cottage Frau Becker now shared with her.

Thought it was familiar now, er first view of this neighborhood had set off panic.

When Mrs. Dougherty had first turned onto this well-treed street not quite two months earlier, Temperance's heart had raced. The houses were set back from the street, the lawns well cared for, and there were old trees and flower gardens in the yards.

It resembled the Maxwells' neighborhood.

"No," she'd gasped. "Please don't take me back."

"Back?" Mrs. Dougherty had asked absently.

"I don't want to go." It had slipped out before she'd clamped her lips together, biting them closed to force herself to be silent. Her breath had come in gasps despite her determination.

"Well, you don't have a choice. You heard the Bradentons. They have to relocate. It isn't about you, not this time. I'd like to think you've learned a little about people."

Temperance had pressed her lips together and clenched her fists so her nails cut into her palms. She'd wondered if her tremors were shaking the entire car. The Buick had suddenly shrunk, and she had been trapped again. But she hadn't been, not really, and she'd forced herself not to reach for the door handle.

Mrs. Dougherty had glanced at her then turned on her signal. "Are you all right, Temperance?"

The mail boxes were different, she'd finally noticed. These were uniform, standard hardware store cheap, not fancy shapes. The houses were smaller. Not the Maxwell's neighborhood. Different. She wasn't going back.

"Temperance?"

"I'm fine," she'd whispered, her throat still tight. It might be all right.

"I've chosen this placement special for you." She had smiled. "Your new foster mother is a professor. Maybe you'll get along better since you'll have something in common."

As they'd turned into the narrow gravel drive, Temperance had thought it was just the kind of house she used to think she'd live in when she was a professor someday. There was a flagstone walk, carefully-kept bushes to the side of the concrete stoop, and a stone frontispiece with a high A-line peak on the roof.

She smiled now at the street, still lit in the twilight. The resemblance of the street to the Maxwells' neighborhood had proved entirely superficial. The snug cottage was comfortable, if a bit Spartan, and she was left alone to do her school work.

In Frau Becker's home, everything was neatly in its place. Unlike at the Maxwells', though, an infraction would result in no more than a scolding reminder. She let herself in and set her shoes on the rack by the door.

The homey smell of stew filled the little house.

"Frau Becker, Ich bin daheim," she called. Though the older woman should have been Dr. Becker as a professor of economics, she had extended formal permission for Temperance to use the more familiar honorific.

Frau Becker stepped out of the kitchen carrying a steaming bowl on a tray. "Dein Deutsch wird besser."

Temperance nodded at the compliment. She'd gladly accepted Frau Becker's offer to teach her German and had memorized key phrases as well as hundreds of words. Her steady improvement was quite pleasing.

"The dinner, it is ready. I am sure you have many lessons to write. I will be in my study."

Temperance served herself a bowl of goulash and noodles and took it upstairs. Her tiny attic room represented the entire upstairs, and her desk sat in front of the one window.

As she ate dinner she read over her checklist for college applications.

The application forms for all five schools were prepared with sealed transcripts and recommendation letters in each envelope. She'd gotten money orders for application fees using her earnings from the Bradentons. Her essays were written, and she needed to revise and edit them. She would easily have everything done before the December first deadline.

She set her applications in a neat pile on the corner of her desk and took out her Latin book. There were twenty sentences to translate, and she settled into the order and familiarity of the grammar. When that was done, she tucked it into her finished work folder and double-checked her assignment notebook. She'd done her physics before leaving school, and she was ahead in reading her government text.

She carried her bowl to the kitchen and washed it. She packaged meal-sized portions of the remaining stew then filled the crock pot with the next day's meal and placed it in the refrigerator. After brushing her teeth and putting on pajamas, she knocked at the study door.

"Tomorrow's dinner is in the refrigerator. Is there anything more I should do?"

"No, thank you, Temperance."

"Gute Nacht, Frau Becker."

The gray bob shook as the older woman looked up and removed thick-lensed glasses. "You have finished your schoolwork, yes?"

"I have."

"Gute Nacht, Temperance."

Temperance climbed the stairs, creaks filling the empty space around her. Sometimes, like tonight, she missed the warmth Nora and even Mrs. Davis had shown her. More than that, she missed her mother.

Pointless.

Missing people was a waste of energy that could be used to achieve her goals. Here she was safe, and that was enough. Abraham Maslow had demonstrated that safety was far more important than belonging.

Anyway, she had Mr. Buxley.

She retrieved her French copy of Voltaire's _Candide_ for AP French. Ducking under the steeply-pitched ceiling, she climbed in bed and tucked the covers around herself. She could take care of whatever she needed. She didn't need anyone else.

***

"So you're going to study anthropology?" Mr. Buxley sat at his workbench, sharpening his hedge trimmers.

"Yes. That's why Northwestern's my first choice. Their program has the greatest number of options within the field."

He checked the blade's edge and set the tool down. "Well, I thought all this time surely you were going to be a doctor."

"Oh, I'm going to get my doctorate. But I'm not going to be a medical doctor."

"Huh." He looked up and made eye contact. It was unusual for them; typically they did their own work while they talked. "What made you decide on anthropology?" His eyes were clear and blue as they held hers, and his scrutiny reminded her of Dad.

"It was my father," she said quietly. We watched movie classics together on Saturday afternoons. When I was eight, we watched _The Mummy_ \--the 1932 one with Boris Karloff--and Dad was impressed that I wasn't scared. I told him I was going to be an archaeologist when I grew up." She laughed. "Dad asked me why, and I told him I was going to dig up mummies and show people that none of them walk or talk or try to capture people's souls, because they're dead."

Mr. Buxley laughed. "That's my Temperance. Always logical. So how'd you get from archaeology to anthropology?"

She grinned. "Dad said most of the Egyptian tombs had already been excavated and that even if there were more, archaeology was more of a treasure hunt. Then he told me that the real work was with what had already been found, and that there were still anthropological studies to be done on museum pieces, and that I could study artifacts and discover what they have to tell the modern world."

"Your father was sharp, like you."

She looked away. It felt odd, having Mr. Buxley tell her she was like someone he'd never met.

"Temperance?"

"Yes?"

"While you're studying human nature and cultural markers, you see if you can find some way to help people. The world needs you to leave your own mark on it."

***  
 **Laying in Supplies**  
***

When they went to the store Frau Becker pushed the cart and directed the entire affair. Frau Becker's favorite store was Aldi. They hadn't run into anyone who knew Temperance's family, though.

"I would never have thought it, a German supermarket chain, and the chain is exported to the United States," she commented. On every visit she pointed out the various German elements. "The carts, they are always collected. Even for just a quarter, people want their money. And the cashier, she can be more efficient when she sits. This care for the worker makes better business."

Today's shopping was in the cloth bags Frau Becker carried, and they were walking home when a slightly familiar voice said, "Temperance, is that you?"

Temperance and Frau Becker turned around together, and Temperance frowned for a moment, then extended a hand. "Congressman Reynolds," she said, reminding herself to smile. "Hello."

"I told you to call me Mel," he said, shaking her hand. "I heard about Jake transferring to Turkey, and I figured you couldn't go with them. I wondered where you ended up."

She gestured to Frau Becker. "This is Eva Becker. She's my current foster mother and a professor of economics. Frau Doctor Becker, this is Congressman Melvin Reynolds. I met him at parties my previous family hosted."

"It is nice to meet you, Congressman," Frau Becker said, firmly shaking the hand he offered.

"What are you doing now, Temperance? Are you going to take me up on that invitation to work in my Washington office?"

"No. I'm in my senior year of high school. Then I'm going to college."

"Of course, of course. A smart girl like you." He patted her shoulder. "What are you taking this year?"

She frowned, not sure why he would ask. Frau Becker nudged her. "I'm sorry. I have AP Chem, AP Physics, Latin, AP French, AP English, and AP Gov. And three college classes."

The congressman whistled. "That's an impressive schedule. Do you think I could convince you to spend your spring break interning for my local office as a project for your government class?"

"I...that would be...." Temperance swallowed her stammer. "Thank you." She forced her voice to be steady. "We're strongly encouraged to do a project just like that."

"Well then, we'll make that work. I'm sure it'll look good for college, too. Which ones are you looking at?"

"Northwestern University is my first choice. I've applied to several others, of course."

"That's a tough school to get into, and expensive, too, but if there are any scholarships available, you'll be the one to find them and get them."

"Thank you." Temperance shifted to her other foot. She had things to do and wasn't sure what the Congressman wanted.

"Here." He reached into his breast pocket and handed her a leather-bound notepad. "You just write your name and address, the name of your high school, and I'll send them a letter extending an invitation to intern. And maybe it'll convince you to spend at least one summer as an intern or congressional page for me." He smiled broadly.

Temperance looked at Frau Becker, who nodded. "Thank you, sir. I appreciate your support." She wrote her name and handed the notepad back.

"Don't think anything of it. You ladies have a good evening." He raised a hand in parting.

"That was unexpected, no?" Frau Becker said.

Temperance stared after him. "Yes. Yes, it was."

"I think you may not have to worry so much now. The universe has made provisions for you. Perhaps this is how your parents take care of you now that they are gone."

***

~December 1993~

"Mr. Buxley?"

"Yes, Temperance?"

She bound the squirrel belly-down on the wood block of the makeshift dissection board. "Do you think that people have consciousness beyond death?"

"Well, I truly can't say that I know. Death is natural. But whether the electrical impulses stopping when a body dies means that the person stops too, or that the consciousness or soul or self goes on in some form...no one can say."

"But what do you think?" She made an incision along the length of the spine, then ran her probe through the fascia to release the skin from the muscle. The stench of death filled the chilly workshop.

There was a long silence while she peeled back the skin to reveal the skull. It was fractured on the left side, and a piece was missing.

Mr. Buxley was silent for a long time. She'd already separated the coronal sutures when he spoke. "I think different things on different days. Some days I think that the mind stops with the body, that people just end like life does. Then some days I think that conservation of energy means those electrical impulses must go somewhere. I guess I don't think there's a heaven, but maybe they become part of the universe."

"I think my parents are dead. It's been over two years now, and there's been no word. I went to the police station this week." She examined the brain tissue and found a path of coagulated blood that led to the skull fragment. When the brain was damaged, life ended. That was the way of things. "I talked to Officer Zukowski. He told me no one has been looking for my parents because there are no leads. But...they wouldn't have left me, so, after this much time, I think they're dead."

"You're a brave one, Temperance. Not everyone can admit to that possibility."

She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin like Frau Becker had been reminding her. "It's simply reality. Logic. This is the most likely outcome. The other reality is that I'll probably never know what happened."

***

~March 1994~

"Temperance, I wish that you do not stay out so late."

"But I need to keep up with my running," Temperance said.

"I understand your desire to remain fit, but your classmate who is missing--"

"Sarah Tidwiller."

"Yes. Until it is known what has happened to her, I would be remiss as your guardian to be letting you be unsupervised."

Temperance opened her mouth to object, but Frau Becker held up a hand.

"There will be no discussion more. The time at home will be good for the preparation for your AP exams. I have read Northwestern's policies, and there much credit you can earn if you score well."

"Yes, ma'am." Temperance nodded slowly. "But, Frau Becker, surely you don't believe in the Burtonsville Butcher."

"Pah. That part is nonsense. But this girl, she is missing, and I think we, most of us, know she will not be returning alive." She turned and went straight to her study.

Temperance wanted to argue, but Frau Becker's logic was sound. Frau Becker, in her own brusque way, cared what happened to her, Temperance realized.

She fell asleep with the empty loneliness--another waste of energy that she steadfastly ignored--held at bay by that knowledge.

***

Taking the bus to her evening university class proved tedious, and Temperance longed for light so that she could run and exercise.

As she spooned up leek and potato soup two weeks later, she said, "Frau Becker?"

"Ja?"

"If I had a bicycle I would be able to move quickly enough to avoid being an easy target. Could I ride to the college?"

Frau Becker's thin face creased. "Ja," she frowned. "But you have no bicycle, so this question, it is academic only."

Temperance nodded and took her soup to her room, where she did her homework.

***

As soon as Tom Skilling predicted the last frost Temperance visited a used bike shop she'd found in the yellow pages. It was in the back yard of a white frame house, and bikes lined every spare inch of the garage as well as the back porch.

"What do you need a bike for?" a man asked, wiping grease-stained hands on an orange rag.

"Why do you care?"

He laughed. "I'm not being freaky. I'm just trying to see what kind of bike would do the best job for you. So...you going to be using it for distance? Competition? Commuting? Something else?"

She studied him. The owner--at least, she thought that's what he was--had gray hair peeking out from under a red bandana, and his torn jeans and tie-dyed t-shirt made him look like a refugee from the 60s.

"You gonna just stand there with your eyes narrowed, or you gonna tell me how I can help you?"

She shrugged. It wouldn't do any harm to tell him. "I'm going to use the bike for transportation. I have an internship over spring break and I need to get to the Metra and then to the office."

He looked around the yard. "How far is the Metra from your house?"

"I think it's about four miles."

"Paved all the way or will you be off-road through the forest preserves?"

"Paved."

He strode toward the chain-link fence. "How about where you're going? Still paved? And how far from the station on that end?"

"It's less than a mile from the other end, and it's in the city."

"Well, then you don't want anything too shiny to attract someone to it, but you want a sturdy bike." He pulled two bikes from behind a drape of morning glory vines. Stems pulled away with the bicycles and dangled as he leaned one against the side of the garage and rolled the other forward. "I think this might be the best bike for you. It's light for carrying onto the train, and it's good for road cycling but also some off-roading in case you expand your cycling."

She narrowed her eyes again. "How do I know you're not just trying to sell me a bike that will make you the most money?"

He shrugged. "I guess you don't. If you really want to know, though, you can work for me two hours a day for the next week. Then I'll give you a discount."

"How much does this one cost?" she asked.

"I've got it marked for $75, but I'd give it to you for $35 if you work with me."

"And what's in it for you if I do that?"

He tilted his head. "Just the knowledge that a young bicyclist is out there who knows how to take care of her bike and keep it in good repair." He offered a mostly-clean hand. "I'm Jerry."

She tilted her head, considering. She didn't really have the time to spare, but neither did she have forty dollars to throw around. "Temperance," she answered.

"So, will I see you tomorrow, Temperance?"

She extended her hand slowly. "Why not start today?"

Jerry grinned and shook her hand.

A week later Temperance knew how to measure a bike to the rider, repair brakes, change tires, lubricate the works, swap out parts, and do routine maintenance.

Jerry turned out to be exactly what he looked like, and he'd told her stories of the '68 Democratic Convention in Chicago, getting arrested at various protests, and his time in the Peace Corps. Now, he'd told her, he worked with bikes and volunteered doing fund-raising for Doctors Without Borders. She'd listened and worked on the bikes.

His bike collection included collectors' pieces and rare foreign things, as well as a unicycle and a recumbent. He'd demonstrated both, and she'd found herself laughing despite herself.

Almost as an afterthought she put Jerry in contact with her AP Government and AP US History teachers so he could tell his stories of the youth movement and the Convention to more teenagers.

He'd given her the bike for thirty dollars just for that, and she rode home on an eight-speed light enough to take up the Metra stairs.

***

"Ich bin daheim," Temperance called, still breathing hard from her run.

"Temperance, du hast einen Brief von Northwestern."

Last week she had received acceptance letters to the University of Illinois at Champaign-Urbana and the University of Chicago. This was the letter she was waiting for, though.

Frau Becker handed it to her, and Temperance inhaled slowly. She exhaled. She opened the envelope and unfolded the letter.

"Dear Ms. Brennan, Northwestern University is pleased to offer you admission," she began. The words on the page blurred for a second, and she blinked and swallowed hard. Tears were a waste of time, a luxury she no longer afforded herself. She skimmed down the page. "We are additionally proud to offer you a scholarship covering tuition for four years of study and including a stipend for books. We hope you will do us the courtesy of responding with your decision."

She looked up from the page. Frau Becker was smiling more broadly than Temperance had ever seen.

"Congratulations, Temperance. You have worked hard to earn this." She extended a hand, and Temperance did the same. It was a firm and decisive handshake.

Temperance wished she could tell her parents, wished Russ were there to grab her in a bear hug and spin her around. She wished the news made her feel happy rather than empty.

***  
 **Promotion Ceremony**  
***

Temperance carefully stacked the envelopes from the last mailing she would do. She printed the letter for her government teacher documenting her hours and service at Congressman Reynolds office.

As the congressman was signing the letter he asked, "Do you have any plans for the last weekend of spring break, Temperance?"

"I didn't have time for anything but attending my college classes and working for you, Congressman, so I've got homework to finish."

He signed some papers and handed them to her. "Certainly you'll do something fun."

The congressman was still at work after six p.m., and Temperance wondered how he didn't understand her priorities. "I do have more revisions to make to my History Fair paper before State next month. I've been biking along the roads that were built over old Indian Trails and taking notes of details I could add."

"Don't get lost on those diagonals." He smiled and patted her hand, then left his hand on hers.

She withdrew her hand. "I don't get lost, Congressman. The Chicago coordinate-plane street plan is incredibly reliable. It's simple algebra. Other than that, I've been completing work packets for AP Chem and AP Physics on the train, and I'm done reading and journaling on both _Beloved_ and _Heart of Darkness_."

He laughed. "Cheery reading."

She frowned. The congressman clearly didn't know the texts well. "They do have hope in the endings, yes. But for the majority of both novels, the characters experience quite disturbing and unpleasant events."

He chuckled then stood and put his jacket on. "Well, I think that does it for the night. Most of the others have packed it in already."

She turned to go and he said, "Can I drive you to the train, Temperance? Or maybe home?"

"Thank you, Congressman Reynolds, but I have my bike with me, and it won't fit in a car." She slung on her backpack. "Thank you so much for all your support."

He took her hand between his and shook it. His hands were smooth and soft. "You're very welcome. You've worked hard this week. I'd like to write a letter of recommendation for you."

"Oh." She blinked, not sure what to say. "I'm grateful, but...I don't need one. I've already been admitted to Northwestern. I accepted."

"Well, I'd like to send them a commendation of your excellent work ethic and recommend you for a scholarship."

"Thank you, Congressman, but I've already received a scholarship. I'm sure they'd be glad to hear from you, though."

He moved closer. "Just remember me, and think about coming to Washington at some point. I'd love to show you around our capital." He touched her cheek. "Are you sure I can't get you to the train?"

Her face flushed suddenly, and she needed to move. She pulled her hand away and stepped back. "Like I said, I've got my bike. Thank you again, Congressman." She waved farewell and hurried to her bike and her train.

Sleep was elusive that night as she wondered if she'd misunderstood his gesture.

***

"Temperance! Did you have a good spring break?" Mr. Buxley extended a hand.

She shook his hand. It was rough, warm, and comforting. "I had an internship for AP Government at the local office of a congressional representative."

"Fantastic, as usual. How'd you arrange that?"

"The representative was one of the visitors at a couple of parties at my last foster home, and he ran into me one day and offered."

Mr. Buxley was frowning. "He just...offered?"

Temperance nodded.

"Which representative was this?"

"Representative Reynolds."

Mr. Buxley's eyes narrowed. "You need to be more cautious, Temperance. I don't usually put much stock in rumors, but I've started to hear some pretty unpleasant things about how that man treats women."

"You know, you sounded like my father just then, Mr. Buxley," she said. Then she frowned, too. "But...I did wonder. When I was leaving at the end of my last day, he touched my cheek--"

"Temperance," Mr. Buxley looked her up and down. "He didn't touch you more than that, did he?"

"No! He didn't do anything else! But...it was very uncomfortable. And I felt bad. I thought maybe I was misinterpreting his gesture, that I was presuming on his kindness. I mean, he might have just been being...generous."

"There's only one thing these politicians are that generous about, and it was something he's got no right to offer someone as young as you." His expression was stern.

"Are you mad at me?" she asked quietly, looking at her shoes.

"At you? Not at all. I just want to make sure he didn't hurt you."

"He didn't," she said, feeling as nervous as she had that night waiting for the train.

"All right. Just...I wouldn't recommend accepting anything else from him. Politicians--especially around here--don't give favors for free."

Temperance thought that sounded like a great many of the people she'd encountered, both before and after her parents' disappearance.

***

~May 1994~

Nothing from the thrift shops or local clothing stores in the mall fit. She'd been to a dozen stores on her bike or jogging and had tried on dozens of dresses before giving up. It was a good thing she hadn't been invited to prom if this was how difficult it was to find something nice to wear.

The second-to-last Friday night of the month there was a sharp rap on her bedroom door.

"Komm," Temperance called.

The door opened. "For every girl, there should be a pretty dress at important occasions," Frau Becker declared with that clipped finality that brooked no argument. "Tomorrow, we will go shopping. The train departs promptly at eight. Sleep well, Temperance."

***

Frau Becker took her to Marshall Field's, and, together, they searched for a dress to fit her lanky but ever curvier figure.

Temperance felt like they tried on every dress in the store. Frau Becker, who, over the last seven months, had touched her only when passing food at dinner, tugged and tucked at each dress. "I was seamstress, you know, when I have first arrived after the war," she said.

Temperance just wanted the background roar of the store and the fussing to stop, and she was ready to beg Frau Becker to take her home. She would just wear an old skirt and blouse, she decided. No one would see it under the gown anyway.

The older woman returned, "Try these."

Temperance thought she might cry. She hadn't cried since the mix-up after she broke Evelyn's jaw.

Frau Becker held out a dress with shell patterns on a background that swirled with blues. It reminded her of where the sky met the ocean on the trip to the beach back when she'd had a family.

She put it on, and Frau Becker tucked at the collar and nodded. "Yes. This one. It shows best the blue of your eyes."

***

She reached up and light, patterned cotton rippled over her. She fit her arms through the cap sleeves and reached around to do up the zipper on the first new dress she'd had in three years.

Looking in the mirror, Temperance blinked back tears as she realized that she looked, like she'd always wanted to, like her mother. For the first time she saw that she was pretty.

She set the mortar board parallel to the floor and pinned her graduation cap on. It was not as secure as it could have been, but that was because her hair was down, like Dad liked it.

He would always twist a curl around his finger, saying, "Give your old dad a hug."

No one had hugged her in over two years, and her hair was too long to curl. It caught on Mom's earrings, the ones that had been out on the dresser when DCFS drove her away from home for the last time. If she'd had time to plan, she would have picked different ones. These weren't Mom's favorites.

She draped the gown she'd ironed so meticulously the night before over her arm and headed down the stairs.

Temperance knew that, as arranged, she and Frau Becker would be picked up by Kendra, the salutatorian, and her father, who would drive them to graduation. They would leave at precisely six.

That gave her thirty minutes, so she rehearsed the speech about the students' futures that the school required her, as valedictorian, to deliver.

***

Sitting in the hard chair on stage, she forced herself to hold her hands still in her lap, to keep her head up, her shoulders back. It was what Frau Becker would demand. Next week classes at Northwestern University would begin, and she hoped again that the scholarship she'd accepted would make her parents proud. She scanned the audience members with their patchwork of clothing and hair colors, facial shapes, movements, and postures. Frau Becker was watching and nodded to her with what almost looked like a smile.

After the speeches and the calling of names, after the endless repetition of "Pomp and Circumstance," after the cascade of spinning hats rose and fell, the students and audience flowed together. She stood apart, watching. There were cheers and hugs and tears and kisses, flashes from cameras, silly poses with groups of students, family groups.

Mr. Buxley shook her hand before excusing himself.

She wasn't crying, not really, as she watched mothers hug their daughters, fathers kiss their children on the cheeks, and older and younger siblings wrap themselves around waists and necks.

She looked away from the liquid movement of the crowd, and her gaze snagged on a Caucasian male with light hair and round, plain features who seemed to be looking at her from near the back of the auditorium.

She frowned, tipped her head, blinked, and he was gone, swallowed up by people, distance, and inadequate light.

If she were less rational, she might have thought it was Matt Brennan.

"We are ready, Temperance," Frau Becker's voice said next to her. "Your parents, they would be very proud. I believe you will be very successful."

With only one glance back at that now-empty spot near the door, Temperance followed the older woman out of the auditorium.

She had a life to get on with, and there were no such things as ghosts.

***  
***


	7. As Far As I Can Run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Temperance begins college, where she excels at academics and internships and digs, prepares for her future, and still finds other people an enigma.

**Transfer of Post**

~September 1994~

The Northwestern University campus teemed with freshmen, most carrying schedules and maps.

"Excuse me, could you help me?"

Temperance stopped, squinting into the sun. Looking down, she saw a young woman.

"I'm looking for the Life-Science Pavilion, but even with the map--" the woman pointed to her lap "--all these buildings look alike."

"I'm going right past there. Follow me." Temperance cringed at her own commanding tone, but the young woman smiled.

"That sounds great. I'm Heather Clutts. Ironic, huh?" She grinned, offering a hand between pushes against the canted wheels of her chair.

Temperance frowned. "I don't see why."

Heather looked her up and down and grinned. "I like you."

"Temperance Brennan." Their hands barely met before Heather pulled her hand away to give her chair another push forward.

"So, what class do you have?"

"Human Anatomy."

Heather glanced at Temperance, and her thick, blond braid slipped over one shoulder and brushed the top of the low-cut back rest. "Ah, an upperclassman."

"Not really," Temperance said.

"That sounds confusing," Heather laughed.

"Human Anatomy is an upper-level class. But this is my first year; I tested out of a great many introductory classes."

"Way to go." Heather sounded impressed. "I got credit from a couple of Advanced Placement tests, but my high school didn't offer many of those. I'm from Minneapolis," she volunteered. "Well, an outer suburb. I'm hoping for less snow to get my wheels stuck in."

"I don't know that you'll find that to be the case. I've shoveled snow every year since I was almost as tall as the shovel."

Heather laughed again. It was a cheerful, honest sound. "It's been so hot since I got here, I can't even imagine snow."

Temperance stopped. "Here you are. I'm heading to the Technological Institute over there." She pointed northwest. "Have a good class. If you're on the far side of the building and up high enough, you might be able to see the lake. It was beautiful this morning when I was running."

"Hey, you run?"

"Yeah."

Brown eyes sparkling, Heather's ready smile grew wider. "Awesome! Me too."

Temperance frowned, not sure what her response should be.

"What's your favorite distance?" Heather asked.

"I usually prefer four to six miles."

"That's my usual. I haven't had a chance to establish a pattern here, though. Would you like to be running buddies?"

Temperance shuddered. "I haven't run with a partner for a long time."

"All right." Heather looked away.

That's disappointment, Temperance thought. She should know. "It's not that I don't want to..." She shook off memories of running with Claire, told herself this had the potential to be pleasant.

"It's not like I'm going to run over you or anything, you know."

"I didn't think you were. I'm amenable to the idea, but I always run in the early morning. Would that work for you?" She wasn't sure if she was apprehensive or hopeful. The slight increase in heart rate that accompanied both emotions was so similar, it was hard to tell. Anyway, hope so rarely paid off that she always felt uncomfortable with it.

Heather's bright smile returned. "It's my favorite time to work out. Are you in campus email?"

Temperance nodded. "I've got to get to class." She pointed away from the building.

"Awesome. Temperance Brennan, right? B-R-E-N-N- **A** -N?"

Temperance nodded again.

"Okay. I'll send you email later for address and phone. It was good to meet you." She waved.

Temperance jogged to her class and settled into a front seat just before the professor introduced himself. She began taking notes, but she was distracted for a few minutes. A friend. She wasn't sure what she was supposed to do, and she wondered how long it would be before Heather was done with her.

***

~January 1995~

"Hey, you got here before me!" Tracy's voice preceded her into the small room.

Temperance looked up from her textbook and reminded herself to smile. She even waved. Mrs. Dougherty would have been so pleased.

"How was your break?" Tracy asked over her shoulder as she dropped bags, pillows, and a huge stuffed cat on her bed.

"It was fine," Temperance said.

"Mine was awesome. Wait till you see what I got for Christmas! What did you get?" Tracy frowned, looking around the dorm room. "Where did you go over break?"

"Nowhere special." Temperance was not going to tell her North Shore roommate--or maybe anyone--about eating at the Evanston soup kitchen while the cafeteria was closed.

"But you saw your family, right?"

"Not this year."

Tracy gaped. "But, what did you do?"

With Heather in Minnesota for the break, she had run eight miles each morning and at least five every evening. She pointed to her book. "I studied."

"Where do you want this stuff, Trace?" An older man rounded the corner with three large suitcases in tow. "Hi, Temperance. How are you?"

"I'm fine, Mr. Clark. How were your holidays?"

"Fine. Trace, take this," he said, holding out a plastic bag.

"Oh! We went to Mackinac Island and stayed at the Grand Hotel--the one from _Somewhere in Time_?--it's, like, my mother's _favorite_ movie. She thinks Christopher Reeve is totally hot." Tracy leaned closer and said, more quietly, "Of course, he _is_. but I'd never admit that to Mom." She started putting her clothes away. "Anyway, it was _amazing_. We had to _dress_ for dinner and _everything_. It was extra warm, so we biked all over the island. Cars aren't even allowed. Oh, and we went on a cruise on the lake. And Mom and I had facials and manicures together."

Temperance's cheeks ached, and the longer Tracy talked, the more the ache expanded through her chest and belly. She'd denied all through the Christmas season that it hurt. It was a waste of energy to grieve, and, anyway, it had been three years. The past was done. Over. Grieving was a pointless waste of energy.

None of that had stopped her from calling Officer Zukowski for her now-yearly query about whether there'd been any leads, or if anyone was following up on her parents' case.

He'd explained that a missing persons case this old with no new leads was a dead case. It hadn't been closed, but no one was looking, and nobody would unless new evidence turned up. She'd run twelve miles that night--all the way to the Field Museum and back--and not gotten home till she was nearly locked out of the dorm.

"Here!" Tracy bounced over. "We brought you a present." She held out a little bundle with tissue paper wrapped around it and tied with curled ribbon.

"What is it?"

"Open it, silly!" Tracy said eagerly.

Temperance felt it. It was hard, but had a slight give. It was about the size of her palm, with uneven borders. She sniffed, but couldn't detect anything but the chemicals on the paper.

"Oh, you! I can't stand it. It's Mackinac Island fudge. We got you the turtle flavor!" Tracy beamed. Her eyes sparkled and her cheeks were pink.

_When she'd had a family, Russ had insisted on the lights that blinked every year._

_Matt and Temperance had always gone through each string to find the burned out bulbs. Once the lights were on the tree, the four of them had decorated together._

_Matt had hung mistletoe every year and always acted surprised when he found himself under it with his wife. When he'd kissed Christine, her cheeks turned pink, and when they'd looked back at the kids they were always smiling like they were kids themselves._

_That had always been Christine's cue to bring out the box of Fannie Mae turtles and Frango mints, and Matt would make eggnog for them all, waving off Christine's reminder to go easy on the rum._

_They'd enjoyed the treats while curled up on the sofa and floor to watch "How the Grinch Stole Christmas."_

_Temperance remembered the last year she had a family. As the Grinch's heart "grew three sizes," she'd turned to see her mother's head on her father's shoulder. Matt had kissed Christine on the head, and they'd both smiled and blown kisses at her, just because she was their daughter and they loved her._

_Christine Brennan's eyes had sparkled with the reflection of Christmas tree lights._

"Are you going to try any?"

A hand waved in front of her eyes.

"Temperance?" Tracy was frowning.

The only Christmas lights this year had been in store windows and the Student Union.

The only mothers had been other people's.

That was how it would always be now, forever.

Loneliness filled her up and flowed over. Her parents were never coming back.

Before she even thought, she was moving down the hallway.

Behind her, Tracy said, "See? I told you she was rude! I can't take much more of this."

She couldn't bring herself to care if Tracy was uncomfortable. Tracy had never been _truly_ uncomfortable in her life, and she didn't even know it.

She only had to deal with Tracy until June. After the winter and spring quarters ended, Temperance would move to a single room. Then she'd be as alone in fact as she felt even when surrounded by people.

***  
 **Behavior Unbecoming**  
***

The cinder block wall of her dorm room was cool behind her as she sat on her bed studying from a book propped on her knees. She glanced at the phone as it began to ring again, then dropped her eyes back to her book. It had only been fifteen minutes. Sooner or later he would give up. He always did.

Temperance turned a page in her _History of African Civilization_ textbook.

After five rings, the answering machine beeped.

"Tempe, I know you're there--"

No one had called her Tempe in nearly two and a half years. It wasn't who she was anymore.

She pushed the teal button on the box beside her, cutting off Russ's voice.

Seconds later the phone began to ring again.

There was a shriek next door and more pounding on the wall. Muffled complaints mounted.

The machine beeped.

"I looked you up in the campus dir--"

She pushed the teal button with relish. This time, _she_ was rejecting _him_. Deliberately. It was satisfying to turn her back on him like he had when he drove away.

The phone rang. The machine picked up.

"I wanna tell you happy birthday--"

She pushed the button. Swallowed. No one else was going to say that to her today. But Russ had made his choice. He’d driven out of her life. He didn’t have the right to barge back in whenever he felt like it, turning her carefully-ordered world upside-down in the process.

~ring~

She turned the page and read about cattle as currency.

~ring~

~beep~

"Tempe, please pick--"

Teal button. She knew she should mute the volume or at least set the machine to pick up on the first ring, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to excise his voice completely. She didn't need him. She didn’t want to talk to him, but she couldn’t let him go, either. Infuriated by her weakness, she glared determinedly at her textbook. When the words blurred she blinked furiously and tried again.

~ring~

"Tempe, I know you--"

Teal button.

~ring~

 _"Just talk to him already!!!"_ The scream was accompanied by more banging on the wall.

~ring~

Next page. Images of preparation for the cattle jumping and comparisons to other rites of initiation into manhood. Maybe Russ would have benefited from such a ritual.

~beep~

"Tempe--"

Teal button.

~ring~

More pounding on the wall.

_"What is wrong with you, bitch?? At least unplug the goddamned phone!"_

~ring~

Page.

~beep~

"Temp, I miss y--"

She stabbed the button. _He_ missed _her??_ She missed them. All of them. Even him, damn him. She could never trust him, though, so there was no point.

~ring~

Her door flew open. The sound as it hit the wall ricocheted around the tiny room. A scowling girl stood there, hands on hips, and a crowd was gathered behind her, watching.

"I swear to God, if that phone doesn't stop--" The girl jabbed a finger toward Temperance as she shouted

"Get _out of my room!!_ " Temperance heard herself screaming, the way she wanted to scream at Russ.

" _You_ unplug the damned phone!" The girl's hair bounced around her shoulders as she put her fists on her hips. "No one on this floor can get anything done, and I'm sure the next floors up and down are ready to _set you on fire!!_ "

~beep~

Temperance growled and slammed her fist into the button before Russ could say a word. The plastic cracked. Her breath came in bursts.

~ring~

"Make it--"

"Shut up!" Temperance roared, ripping the little machine out of the wall and throwing it at the girl, who swore and ducked. Temperance flung the nearest book after her. "Get out!" She sprang toward the door. "Get out!" She slammed the door against the retreating girls.

She sat back down, still breathing hard, her cheeks burning, her heart pounding. She reached for her textbook.

_"In Hamar culture, before boys can complete the cattle-leaping initiation ritual, their sisters must volunteer to be whipped. They bear the pain and scars for their brothers, who owe their sisters a great debt and remember and care for them in difficult times." ___

She started giggling.

Then she was laughing. Then the absurdity bubbled up from her belly until she was consumed. She laughed until tears rolled down her cheeks, until she needed to go to the bathroom.

Until the knock at the door.

Two officers stood on the other side. One, African American and male, was from the campus police. The other, female and noticeably shorter than Temperance, wore Evanston Police Department patches.

Temperance answered their questions, but even her deep breathing was unable to keep her from chuckling occasionally.

Forty-five minutes later, she'd sobered from what she now recognized as hysteria. She'd come close to being driven to the hospital.

"Next week is exams," she'd protested.

"Well, Ms. Brennan, your safety and the safety of the others in this dorm takes precedence." She couldn't remember which cop had said that. Both had expressed the same sentiment at least five times.

She had apologized to the brown-haired girl, had been escorted to the R.A., an upper-classman named Crystal, and had been given orders to visit campus health services. In return for allowing her to remain in the dorm, she was to check in twice a week with Crystal, who would refer Temperance to help if she felt it was warranted.

"I hope you'll consider anger management, Ms. Brennan," the female cop had said on her way out.

"I don't want to have to come out here again," the man had added.

"That won't be necessary," she had said to them both.

It wouldn't unnecessary for them to return. She'd broken the phone. Anyway, Russ wouldn't call again until her next birthday.

Someone touched her arm.

"What?" she snapped, spinning around.

Crystal did not startle or back away. "I don't know what your deal is, and I don't care. But you'd better keep it together. I just went out on a limb for you. Don't make me regret it." She stalked away and slammed her door behind her.

Temperance stared at the cheerful door decorations and dry-erase board with perky cartoons, quivering with fury. Finally she turned and stalked out of the building. It was two hours and ten miles later when she returned to her room and her reading.

***

~August 1995~

_"Congressman Mel Reynolds has been convicted of multiple counts of sexual assault. Illinois congressmen have joined other members of Congress in asking for his resignation..."_

Temperance stood and moved closer to the cafeteria television. Walter Jacobson had moved on to the next story. She reached up and changed the channel to WGN just as Congressman Reynolds' photo appeared. This report said nothing new, but it did confirm the first one.

_"Can I drive you to the train, Temperance? Or maybe home?"_

A shudder went through her, and she remembered his hands holding hers.

She hadn't read it wrong. He had been propositioning her.

The newscasters were shaking their heads about "another one" and listing off other politicians' names.

Temperance shuddered again, then returned to her table. She sat so her back was to the TV and ate her salad. The crunch of the vegetables seemed to chant, "Almost. Almost."

Her footsteps on the way to the lecture hall beat out the same chant.

After three hours of Dr. Howell's polysci lecture on governments, the need for oversight, and how things can get out of control in the absence of checks and balances, Temperance stood, stretched, and marched to the Rec Building. She looked through the schedule for a few minutes, then signed up for beginning karate.

***  
 **Hand to Hand**  
***

~November 1996~

Dr. Stires set her paper down and whistled softly then shook his head. "Miss Brennan, this is the most impressive piece of academic research I have ever seen from someone not already in a tenure-track position."

"Thank you." She sat straight, shoulders back, chin up. These were what Frau Becker had demanded and, she had observed, were the mannerisms of the most assertive and confident of students and faculty. Her final paper in kinesiology, comparing the effects of this posture's impact on an individual's perceived authority to the history of perceived authority gained by standing at military attention was in final review for publication.

He leaned back and smiled. "May I ask what your academic goals are?"

"I'll be working in Rwanda over my Thanksgiving break and some of the following week as part of my Master's project, and I plan to look more fully into assessing the force with which a machete was swung based on marks left on the bone." She folded her hands on his desk. "Beginning in January I plan to pursue my doctorate in forensic anthropology. I would like to ask you to serve on my dissertation committee. I believe our shared interest in recovery and identification of individuals buried in mass graves makes you well-suited to review my proposed projects in recovery and reconstruction."

"You make a good argument, as always, Miss Brennan. I accept."

"Thank you, Dr. Stires."

"So, Rwanda?"

"Genocide trials begin at the end of the year or early next year." She shrugged. "They need skilled scientists to present evidence. I've been given to understand that many people fear going into an area with such unrest."

"And you don't?"

"This work is intellectually exhilarating and, more importantly, has significant repercussions on Rwanda itself as well as on international justice systems. Turning down such an opportunity would be foolhardy."

Dr. Stires leaned his chin on his fist. "How did you get invited to participate in victim recovery in such a publicized region?"

She sat even straighter and smiled. "I was recommended for the project by the leader of the group I accompanied to Waco this spring. We studied the burned remains of the Branch Davidian Complex. I'm highly detail-oriented and particularly skilled at separating remains that have been collectively interred."

Dr. Stires smiled. "I like that. You're forthright. Unfazeable." He stood and extended his hand. "I will speak to the chair about being on your committee. You're going to be a powerhouse in the field, Temperance."

She stood as well and took his hand. "Thank you, Dr. Stires. I'm looking forward to working with you as well." A little quiver vibrated through her, and if he held her hand for a moment too long, she found she didn't mind.

***

She braced herself and the remains she was studying. Gunfire sounded nearby. So did explosions. She was never sure if it was training, tests, or reemerging unrest. Certainly there was an undercurrent of tension throughout the country. With only months until the genocide trials, guilt and anger merged into a resurgence of bitterness. That, in turn, became animosity directed toward those like her, who were laying open shame to the world.

Her heart rate slowed, but the rush of the explosion left her clear-headed and confident. She found she worked more steadily with external reminders of the urgency of her findings.

Her days were filled with assembling disarticulated remains. She laid them out with gentle care, reciting bone names as she did. She photographed cuts and gashes in bone and made careful measurements and notes. Her evenings were filled with compiling data and writing reports.

Before her flight home she submitted her report on the cause of death of the seventeen individuals whose remains she had reassembled. Her findings would be entered into evidence in the trials. Upon her return, she would submit her detailed dissertation proposal to the department and the paper she'd written about her findings to the _Journal of Physical Anthropology_. Before even completing undergraduate work, she'd begun to plan for a career by choosing her research topics with an eye toward publication, and her article about standing at attention needed only two small clarifications before it went to press.

On the plane her shoulders and neck and forearms cramped, and her feet throbbed from the week of standing on concrete. She'd never had such an exhausting school break, nor such a rewarding one.

Her belated Thanksgiving dinner was airline food. Russ would have made a joke about the flight from the movie _Airplane_ , because she ate the fish.

But Russ wasn't there, and her parents weren't there. Someday perhaps someone would find her parents' remains, identify them, and tell her what had happened to them, like she had done for the families of seventeen Rwandans.

***

~December 1996~

"Wait, you're almost done with your _Masters??_ " Heather was still breathing hard from their run. "I haven't even finished my Bachelors."

Temperance cocked her head.

"All right, so I did change majors twice, but they were both in science!" Heather laughed. "But that certainly explains why we've never had classes together. I mean, I knew you were advanced, but...wow."

"I've got to get going. I'm teaching the karate class in the Rec Building."

"And I'd better work on my paper."

"You're welcome to come to the class with me." Temperance was never sure if Heather declined her invitations because of actual disinterest or because of a belief or sense that she would be unable to participate. If it was the latter, Temperance had to acknowledge that it might not work since Heather couldn't do any of the kicks. Still...she could punch and probably, if she wanted to stick with it, work with nunchuks or a bo-staff. "I find contact sparring provides an excellent catharsis, especially so near exam time."

To her consternation, Temperance found herself suddenly pulled downward. Arms were wrapped around her, over a shoulder and around her back. A giggle sounded near her ear. The arms squeezed and she was thrown entirely off-balance. She didn't know where to put her own arms.

"Temp, you're so awesome," Heather said. "You just never see anything but what I _can_ do."

Temperance barely managed to avoid falling into Heather's lap. She scrambled back, trying to regain her footing. "I don't know what that means. What else would I look at?"

Heather grinned. "Thanks for the invitation, but I've got organic chemistry to study for. It's totally kicking my ass. You go kick and punch things for both of us, 'kay? Maybe I'll give it a try in the winter quarter."

Temperance tried to smile back, gave a quick wave, and ran. Those weren't tears in her eyes, she told herself. It was just windy, and her chest ached from the cold winter air. That was all. She wasn't thinking about her mother's arms around her, or the sloppy kisses and pudgy little arms of children who loved her for a few months.

She was fine alone; human contact just distracted from her studies.

At class, her demonstration was so quick and powerful it knocked the heavy bag off its hook.

"Don't mess with her," she heard one of the guys whisper.

She smiled, rehung the bag, and kicked it again. It was a good reputation to have.

***  
 **Honor Code**  
***

~June 1997~

Temperance's belongings were all in a self-storage unit, save for what was in the backpack-duffel at her feet. Her hair was pulled back under her boonie hat, and she wore light cotton khakis and hiking boots. Sweat dripped down her face and back.

Air pressed against her, as hot and humid as it had been in the Maxwell's trunk and on the sunniest runs in the Chicago August. Guatemalan summer had already set in, and waves of heat rose off the pavement. The slight breeze moved dust through the hot air so that when she scratched her arm, grit smeared with sweat into a streak of mud.

The other eight graduate students milled around, chatting and drinking bottled water, laughing. Several stood in pairs, demonstrating proximity that signaled sexual availability and interest.

Dr. Stires was talking to a man near a brightly-painted bus, then the professor nodded and headed towards the grad students. "All right, everyone," he called. "Bring your things over here. Valdez is going to stow them on top of the bus. Jeff, Maria, Daniel, get the equipment boxes. Stephanie, Deelu, Shin, get the team gear. The rest of you, hand things up to Valdez."

Temperance hefted her duffel. Valdez was already on top of the bus and hauled it up. Soon he was tying all the gear down with lengths of rope looping around the rack and crisscrossing the boxes and bags. The resulting multi-colored heap, atop the red, yellow, and green bus, looked almost like a modern sculpture.

On the drive to Chichicastenango, Valdez kept up a running commentary while pointing to various parts of the countryside. About every ten minutes, he pointed to the pictures of his children affixed to the sun visor and told a story about them. Temperance's crash course in Spanish was only equal to getting the gist of his comments and the occasional detail, but his pride in his country were evident.

The drive stretched longer than the expected four hours as Valdez picked up additional passengers. The laborers nodded politely to the Northwestern group as they boarded with their rattling metal lunch buckets. In the seat across the aisle, two chickens in a cage clucked in time to the rocking of the bus as it climbed the perilous mountainside roads. The smell of dust, feathers, and perspiration filled the air.

At the next stop Temperance motioned to a woman wearing a baby wrapped in a brightly-colored rebozo, indicating the woman should take the seat beside her. The woman gave her a grateful smile as she sank onto the worn vinyl, and Temperance waved at the baby, intrigued by the tiny hands that flailed ineffectually against the stuffy atmosphere.

As the sun set, mists trailed along the tree line, and the lush green was suffused with color.

Temperance leaned against the hard seat. Her shoulders drooped as the journey began to wear on her. According to her watch, they'd been traveling for nearly seventeen hours. Beside her, the baby slept against his mother's chest. Temperance's attempts to rest were thwarted by the bumping and jerking of the bus.

Then it was dark, and she realized she must have slept because the woman with her baby and the man with the chickens were gone, and the bus had stopped. There was a flurry of activity as they stretched, shook off fatigue, and unloaded. Temperance pitched her tent in a haze of exhaustion and settled in for the night.

For the next four weeks, the six who were there to assist on the dig worked ten-hour days in the heat and sun while the others conducted interviews. Even with the draining days, the group spent evenings together, and Stephanie and Jeff had bunked down in the same tent by the second night.

Temperance continued to avoid group activities, instead spending the hour after dinner reviewing and organizing her notes. Her ideas for a paper were coming together nicely before they were far into their second week at the site.

The others whispered of the genocide that had led to this mass grave's existence. Jasmina compared it to the recent massacre in Srebrenica, where her parents had grown up. Deelu talked about interviewing the villagers and her progress in analyzing the influence of Spanish on modern Maya-Quiche dialects. Shin shared what he'd seen in terms of medical facilities and how many Indian villagers he'd seen with health problems from old injuries from the time of the massacres. Eric shrugged, said the international community wasn't going to be interested if the villagers didn't clamor for action, and that the likelihood of any legal action being effective was hampered by so many Guatemalan government and law enforcement officials having been party to or directly involved in the massacres.

Temperance reflected on those political realities as she ate the expertly spiced black beans with rice, typical fare for the region, nourishing yet simple. The socio-political realities were anything but simple. She'd seen similar levels of corruption and caution in Rwanda last fall. She was still processing the sociological and anthropological implications of such pervasive and justified mistrust of authority.

"I wonder if there are studies of the differing responses of a people to the failure of the protective elements of their world," she said. "It could be approached from the standpoint of cultural anthropology, through the lens of cultural mores regarding independence or expectations of and attitudes toward authority, for example. Or the reaction of a people could be examined from a standpoint of culturally coded response to change, with attention to the stability of the culture and government prior to the protective failure. Had the government and/or law enforcement officials been trusted or effective prior to the failure? Were they already mistrusted or untrustworthy? Other factors that could contribute to people's responses and their sense of betrayal could include age, gender, family status..." She ticked off factors for which a study could attempt to control. "Studies could be done in various countries and cultures, and then the results could be compared to see if any factors predispose a community to a more positive outcome or even a greater rate of survival after a significant protective failure." She looked at the others. They were frozen in place, drinks half raised to their mouths, which were hanging open. "What?"

"Temperance," Maria began slowly, "weren't you the one who found the thoracic and lumbar vertebrae with machete marks on the ventral surfaces today?"

She glanced at her beer. "Yes. My preliminary findings indicate those vertebrae come from a single individual."

"And that doesn't bother you?" Daniel asked, setting his glass hard on the table.

She tilted her head. "I'm a scientist. I'm here to do a job. I can't do that job if I fail to analyze how our observations can help in the future as well as how my expertise can contribute to my field."

"Wait," Jeff said. "Are you saying we're not scientists?"

"Or that we lack expertise or objectivity?" Daniel added.

She shrugged. "That wasn't my primary intent, but my words could be interpreted with that meaning. I do believe that anyone unwilling to set aside their personal responses is showing an unprofessional lack of objectivity that compromises the expedition, its results, and its integrity."

"Now you're saying we don't have integrity?" Jeff demanded, scooting his chair back.

"Conway," Eric said. "Let it go. She's a bitch." He stood and put a hand on Jeff's shoulder. "Come on, man. Let's go."

Jeff clutched his glass and stared at Temperance.

She raised her eyebrows and put on her best indifferent expression as she returned his stare.

Jeff tossed back the rest of his drink, slammed down the glass, and stalked away. The others followed suit. Stephanie shook her head and rolled her eyes before turning to go.

Temperance took a drink, and the hops tasted more bitter than usual. She withdrew her notebook from her bag and turned to her notes from that day.

"You sure know how to win friends and influence people."

She turned. Dr. Stires eyed her over a half-empty beer bottle. "I'm quite sure I didn't 'win friends' just now," she said.

He smiled broadly then moved to sit across from her.

She folded her hands and rested them on her notebook, returning his gaze.

"One of the necessities of academia is the ability to gain support from one's peers," he said.

"Support comes naturally for accurate and meticulous research and factual analyses."

Dr. Stires laughed out loud.

She frowned.

When he stopped laughing, he stared at her and frowned. "You're serious, aren't you?"

"Of course. It's the merit of our work and knowledge that speaks for itself." A tingle flickered uncomfortably through the backs of her arms.

Dr. Stires took another drink, then waved his bottle at the server. "Temperance, there's something you need to understand." He opened the bottle the server brought and sucked off the foam. "Academia is back-biting and vicious. Far too many very, very smart people are vying for too few tenure-track positions, for publication opportunities, and for grant money. The view you just expressed is, well, naïve at best, foolish at worst. You have to earn respect both personally and professionally. And insulting your colleagues is just not the way to do it."

She frowned. "But...I didn't insult them."

"Um, yeah, you did. I don't think you meant to, but you've got to listen to your words and take the possible interpretations into consideration."

"That's ridiculous. What I say is just what I say. Interpretation is for literature and data."

"Ah, but there's the rub." He looked at her.

She looked back.

He shook his head. "I mean that data is, like you said, _interpreted_. Your interpretations, no matter how well thought out, how brilliant, how thoroughly researched, are still _interpretations_ , and they can be in error. And _you_ can be in error. When that happens, you need to have colleagues who will collaborate with you rather than celebrating a chance to take you down a peg."

"Why would they do that?"

"Ego."

She sniffed. "That is entirely unprofessional."

"Doesn't matter. They'll want to prove you less important."

She stared at him and opened her mouth.

He held up a hand. "Or, worse, they'll try to discredit you."

She sat up straighter. "My work stands on its own. They'll have to have evidence if they want to discredit me."

"Don't listen, then." Dr. Stires stood up. "Go it on your own, do it your way, and see how it turns out. Good night, Temperance."

She walked back to her tent, wondering why the cool mountain air wasn't more refreshing.

***  
 **Crimes against Humanity**  
***

The next day, she was brushing the side wall of her grid square when she saw a flicker of light. She leaned in closer and brushed it, then climbed out.

"Jeff?"

He squinted up at her. "What do you want to do now? Tear down my field in addition to me?"

"No." She paused, thought. Then she continued. "Your work shows you to be an excellent archaeology student. Could I ask your opinion on something I've found?"

"Is this some kind of trick?"

She frowned. "Why would it be a trick?"

"Because of what you said... Never mind. What do you want?"

"Like I said, I'd like to ask your opinion on something."

He dusted his hands off and followed her.

A few minutes later they'd gathered two other grad students, along with Dr. Stires, and Dr. Cordova, the site manager.

Each person climbed down, brushed at the glint, examined it with a magnifying glass, and went silent, then let the next person examine it.

"Should I remove the remains?" Temperance asked.

Dr. Cordova nodded. "We want to keep this as quiet as possible. This is potentially quite damning, and we can't be sure even our guards are uninvolved in the massacres. Make sure you document everything."

The rest of the day Temperance felt her erector spinae and splenius capitis tensing, and she reminded herself to inhale deeply and exhale completely, as if she were running or practicing karate. The entire site was more quiet than usual, and Temperance was surprised the silence wasn't more conducive to steady work.

As the sun began to set Dr. Cordova made sure they locked all remains and artifacts up safely, and warned them to be particularly careful of being alone, and not to tell anyone about the details of their work.

Temperance thought that was an odd request since they'd all signed non-disclosure agreements, but she said nothing. The walk back to camp was uncharacteristically silent.

Jeff and Stephanie held hands, and Maria and Jasmina walked so close their shoulders touched. The others clumped together.

Temperance walked alone, then she ate dinner alone. In her tent, she reviewed her findings and made notes for the paper she planned to write before falling into a fitful sleep.

The somber mood continued into the next day. The sky was gray for the first time since their arrival, and the trail smelled of damp earth and foliage. In addition to the ubiquitous humidity, a mist fell.

By the time they got to the dig the precipitation had stopped, so they were able to uncover the site.

"This isn't a dig anymore," Stephanie said.

"It's a mass grave," Temperance said.

The others nodded then went to work.

They hadn't broken for lunch yet, but the sun had emerged around ten and was already at its midday height. At this latitude, and just days from the summer solstice, it was almost directly overhead, and the bright shadowlessness seemed unnatural.

"Stop!"

One by one, the students stood, looking for the source of the sound.

"Was that Dr. Cordova?" Maria asked. She looked from person to person, but they were all frowning and still, and no one was speaking.

There was a thump, then a crack and a crash accompanied by a sharp cry. Footsteps approached. Metal rattled. Strange male voices called to each other in Spanish. The footsteps came nearer.

Daniel and Jasmina started to climb out of the hole.

Boots appeared. Legs in camouflage. Military jackets and hats. Each soldier carried a rifle. At least one had a machine gun. All of them wore sidearms.

Before anyone managed to move, the soldiers circled them. So many of them. Maybe twelve. Their rifles were at rest, but their fingers were near the triggers.

The one Temperance faced looked her up and down. He stroked the barrel of his gun slowly.

Temperance felt suddenly cold. Her heart slowed. Then it began to pound so all she could hear was blood rushing in her ears.

The soldiers all looked the same: backlit and faceless. The sun against their caps cast a shadow and obscured any glimpse of their true appearances.

Temperance trembled. She forced herself to turn. Jeff and Stephanie hadn't made it past their knees, but the rest were standing.

One man stepped forward. He wore gold insignia, and his hat was not the basic camouflage but a black and red beret. The leader.

He walked casually. His rifle was slung over his back, and his hands were behind him too. He stepped to the edge of the hole and brought his hands forward. One held the pelvis they'd unearthed the day before. He fingered the bone and tipped it back and forth so one spot glinted in the sun. The light reflected off the jacketed bullet embedded in the bone, so it flickered just like it had the previous day.

"This is not something that should be found," he said in Spanish. He strolled around the top of the grave they were all in. He tapped the bone against his palm. "This is shameful for all of Guatemala. It is something from a time that is best forgotten." He leaned forward. "You." He pointed at Maria. "Do you speak Spanish?"

Maria nodded.

"Do you speak English?"

She nodded again.

"Tell them what I say. I want there to be no confusion."

Maria's voice was wet with tears and barely audible.

Temperance breathed shallowly. Nausea roiled through her.

She'd spent the past two weeks cataloguing the damage to these remains, the vicious attacks that had cut into and left marks on nearly every type of bone they'd recovered. This could happen to them just as easily, to all of them. Just like Jean Donovan and those nuns in El Salvador, they could suffer the same fate as the people they were there to help.

They could be killed and mutilated, left in the mass grave they were excavating.

"You will not speak against this regime. Remember you are guests in our country."

Maria repeated his words.

Temperance turned to Dr Stires. She couldn't control the quaver in her voice as she asked, "What do we do?"

Dr. Stires met her gaze and held it, then he stood up straighter. "We tell the truth. We do not flinch." He looked at each of the others, one by one, before turning back to the head of the soldiers.

There was a long moment where they watched each other. Temperance's heart pounded.

The leader nodded. "We want you to be safe during your visit, so we will take this," the leader said, still tapping the bone against his palm. "My officers will stay and provide security. Bad things could happen if...certain people heard of your discoveries." He turned and walked away. All but two of his men followed.

They disappeared into the fog that swirled back up from the valley and clouds blew in again.

Three days later the entire group was back on the chicken bus. Despite the heat both Jeff and Stephanie and Jasmina and Maria sat next to each other. It was over a week earlier than they had planned to leave, and even Valdez didn't speak. The silence on the bus reflected the silence regarding the genocide. Now they were all party to that silence.

Temperance's notes were tucked into an inner pocket of her duffel along with a copy of the picture she had taken of the fully-jacketed U.S. bullet that had been lodged in the young man's pelvis. She would show her documents to Dr. Stires when they were back in Chicago, and would write a paper revealing what the soldiers had hoped to suppress.

Temperance vowed to return, to restore identity to more of the dead they had begun to recover, to return them to their families and give them back their history.

***  
***

***  
 **As Far As I Can Run**  
***

~May 1998~

"Temperance, could you stay behind?"

"Yes, Dr. Stires." Temperance gathered her things.

The other students filed out, including Maria and Jasmina, who were still together, much to Temperance's surprise. According to what she'd understood, relationships begun under high-stress situations rarely survived, and humans were not geared toward monogamy. Still, it hadn't been even a year, so perhaps this was a comfortable dalliance.

Temperance had spoken to Jasmina about digs in Srebrenica, and Jasmina had shared the program she was applying to. They needed trained participants, so it was possible Temperance would join Jasmina for two months in the former Yugoslavia this summer. That would test the staying power of the women's relationship.

Temperance was beginning to consider pursuing a sexual relationship. It would not be long before her lack of experience would work against her in acquiring a partner even for casual sexual fulfillment.

She approached Dr. Stires.

"I have a surprise for you," he said.

"What is it?"

"A _surprise_. Let's go back to my office." He raised his eyebrows then turned.

She smiled as she followed him. Dr. Stires was her leading choice for a partner. She found his face symmetrical and pleasing. He was intelligent, steadfast, a good leader. Her genitals warmed when she watched him lecture. He challenged her and demanded that she take risks rather than play it safe. He was somewhat older and therefore probably experienced, a good choice to guide her in a first sexual encounter. He was also easy to talk to, so she had no doubt she would be comfortable sharing the sexual preferences she had discovered in her masturbatory experimentation.

Yes, she thought. Dr. Stires was a good choice.

His office had books piled on every surface. He held up _The Journal of Forensic Sciences_. "It's our article on the Guatemala dig," he announced.

She grabbed the journal. "You got your author's copy already?"

He nodded.

She flipped to it. Her third publication. Her first co-written article. She beamed as she read, seeing her comments and Dr. Stires' intertwined, remembering how he'd competed with her and challenged her to greater achievement. Yes, this was an excellent collaboration to maintain.

"Congratulations, Temperance." He was still smiling. His face was pleasant when he smiled.

"Congratulations to you, too." She stepped closer to him. "I would like to pursue more than an academic relationship with you."

He stepped back. "Temperance, I can't do that. The university would view it as an abuse of power." He frowned, keeping her at arm's length with an outstretched hand.

Temperance frowned. "But...this is my idea, and you said yourself we're intellectual peers."

He kept shaking his head, but she could see his eyes had dilated slightly. She aroused him. "Yes, but I'm on your thesis committee."

She shrugged, stepping toward him. "You're not my primary faculty advisor, though. And if it bothers you, I'll ask for a replacement. I certainly know my own mind, and anthropology shows us that society's edicts, while important considerations, are flawed if adhered to with too great of rigidity."

He looked to the side, then back at her, then from her eyes to her lips and back at her lips. Finally he took a deep breath and said, "Violating societal norms is an act for those who are defying societal structures. We both value that structure."

She smiled and took another step closer. "But we're able to make independent determinations about where that structure may be too restrictive for individuals. And while many people are protected by these rules, we need no such protection if we enter into an adult relationship with established boundaries and expectations." She stepped closer, and he licked his lips. She smiled. "Of course, if you're concerned about the appearance of disregard for societal norms, we could avoid mixing our personal and professional lives and have a relationship that is kept separate of our academic interactions."

"That proposal sounds well-reasoned, Temperance." This time his eyes didn't leave her lips.

"In fact, we could clarify the separate roles by naming protocols." He smelled musky, and she dropped her voice a register. "I could call you Michael in private interaction." Her stomach tensed, but she pressed on. "And you can call me Tempe."

He smiled. "You drive a hard bargain. Should we try dinner tonight?"

***

~November 1998~

Temperance pinned up her hair and checked the back in the small mirror in the bathroom of her tiny studio apartment. Her one pantsuit was crisply ironed and fit perfectly; she'd spent quite a bit of her carefully-saved assistantship funds on it. She put on her mother's earrings, the same ones she'd worn to all three of the job interviews she'd had thus far. She applied the little bit of makeup Heather had taught her to use, picked up the leather satchel that had been a "finished with dissertation" gift from Michael, and declared herself ready.

She arrived early at the conference room and sat in the single chair reserved for her, hands folded in her lap. She'd seen other students preparing for the defense portions of their degrees, and they'd always looked so stressed as to seem nearly panicked. She didn't understand how they could be both competent in the field and that afraid of doing poorly. Temperance's supervisor had commented extensively on her work, like everyone's supervisor. She had added sections, revised, clarified, and proofread equally extensively. The defense, at this point, seemed like a formality.

Even so, she'd scheduled her defense for November in case they found typos or wanted minor corrections. That way her degree would be conferred in December.

Dr. Sternberg arrived first, her ubiquitous cane in hand, looking typically stern. Students frequently chuckled over the confluence of her appearance and name, but Temperance pointed out that it merely meant "star mountain" in German. Dr. Blackwood arrived with Dr. Anigbogu. Michael was the last to arrive, smiling with the expression he'd told her last night was his "knock 'em dead" look.

"Why would I wish to knock my defense committee dead?" she'd asked. "That would prevent them from acknowledging my success."

Michael had laughed and kissed her forehead. "It just means that you're so powerful you _could_ knock them down. And I'm looking forward to watching you do it."

It was still a ridiculous phrase, but the faith Michael had in her was oddly reassuring. She knew she'd done well, and it was strange to value someone else's opinion of her so highly.

The defense went exactly as she expected. Every question the professors posed was one she'd anticipated. She quoted her dissertation, her published work, and the references she'd cited. Dr. Blackwood commented on Temperance's recall. Dr. Sternberg said that, in thirty years, she had never heard a defense so thoroughly sourced and detailed. Dr. Anigbogu asked to keep his notes. Michael just smiled.

The group unanimously decided to accept the dissertation without corrections or revisions, and even applauded her.

On the way out of the building to the dinner he'd promised, Michael said in her ear, "I've never seen such positive feedback. You sure knocked 'em dead, Tempe."

***

Temperance handed in her final copies of her dissertation to the graduate office the next morning. The prior two weeks had involved very little sleep, as she'd ridden the adrenaline high of achievement. Last night's celebrations had included highly satisfying sex, but she'd still been in bed by nine and had slept twelve straight hours.

She expected to feel elation or excitement as she left the office. Accomplishment warmed her as she skipped down five flights of stairs and out into the crisp smell of winter air blowing onto campus from Lake Michigan, but she felt like she was forgetting something. Something important wasn't done.

She biked back to her apartment. Even the adrenaline surge of having to swerve away from being hit by a car didn't push away the nagging sense that something wasn't quite set.

She locked her bike and unlocked the front door of her building. Her building. She didn't know where she was going to live now, or what she was going to do. Despite her scholarships, fellowships, and savings, she had well over ten thousand dollars of student loans and no job. She contemplated going back out and riding up and down the lakefront as she turned the key in the little metal door of her mailbox.

Instead of the usual collection of junk mail, inside was a single, off-white envelope.

The return address on the envelope read "Jeffersonian Institution, Washington, DC."

Temperance held it carefully. The same numb chill she'd felt when she'd held her acceptance letter from Northwestern went down her arms and through her belly.

While the envelope was sealed, it was like Schrödinger's cat: the letter held both acceptance and rejection.

There were countless other candidates in a variety of specializations. She knew the Jeffersonian was considering a variety of specialties for the Medico-Legal position, and while the Jeffersonian could hire from a large pool of candidates, she was sure they'd hire a forensic anthropologist. That would make the first museum on the east coast with such an expert on staff.

Michael had applied and interviewed for this job. She was the better writer, but he had more field and teaching experience.

No matter the outcome, she and Michael would be living in different cities before the end of the year. She'd miss him, but she'd known it was only for a while when she'd initiated their relationship.

She turned the envelope over in her hand. It smelled like dust and chemicals and history, just like the lab, even after its time in transit.

When the Jeffersonian had flown her to D.C. to interview, she'd been impressed by the history of the city, the ease of the public transport system, and the facilities of the Medico-Legal Lab. The position offered excellent opportunities for travel and independent research, and Temperance felt that she could fit into that environment.

She could taste her desire for the job.

She climbed the stairs to her third floor apartment and locked the door behind her. She was in private now. It was time. Acceptance or rejection.

She slit open the envelope flap. Her stomach fluttered. A quick scan and her breath caught as relief and excitement flowed through her.

November 25, 1998

Dear Dr. Brennan:

We are pleased to offer you a position as the Medico-Legal Lab's forensic anthropologist at the Jeffersonian Institute, to begin as soon in December as you can arrive. We hope that you will find a scientific and professional home with us in a relationship that will be mutually beneficial.

I look forward to your positive response.

Sincerely,  
Dr. Daniel Goodman  
Director, Medico-Legal Lab  
Jeffersonian Institute

The letter was offering her what she had been missing for the past seven years: a home. This would be a professional home, on she had worked to build and for which she was uniquely prepared. She would make a difference there. What she did would matter.

She opened the bottom drawer of her battered filing cabinet and removed the gift-wrapped boxes she'd carried for nearly six years. Maybe it was time to open them or discard them, to leave behind the last piece of that home. She noticed her thumb stroking the bright paper and her breath hitched in her throat. She set the presents in a pilfered liquor box and tucked her mother's red scarf carefully around them. She filled the rest of the box, taped it closed, and set it beside the door.

She surveyed the apartment then began to pack the pieces and things she would take with her to her new life.

***  
~end~  
***

**Author's Note:**

> Notes:
> 
> Story planning begun: February 2010. Writing begun: August 2010. Story finished: January 2012.
> 
> Thanks upon thanks to my wonderful betas and sounding boards: jsq, Bluemorpho, and Havocthecat. HUGE and effusive gratitude to my line-editor and prodder to make this story as good as I could at this time, as well as encouragement and sounding board services while I planned and wrote for two years to Ayiana2.
> 
> Education Information  
> On the drive Temperance is reading as they leave the family home is Howard Zinn's outstanding _A People's History of the United States: 1492 to Present_ , which is often assigned in higher-level American history classes (h.s. & college).
> 
>  **"AP" Classes:** At American high schools that offer them, academically-inclined students may take what are called ["Advanced Placement" or "AP" classes](http://www.collegeboard.com/student/testing/ap/about.html). These move at a faster pace and have higher demands on student performance. At the end of the year there a 3-hour test in each area of study (with multiple choice and essay/long answer questions). Many universities give college credit for the highest score of 5.
> 
> The texts listed as assigned or being read by Brennan are typical examples of assigned readings at the level of school she is at each step.
> 
> Information from Temperance's hypothetical African textbook in chapter 7 obtained from: The Hamar (2008). _BBC Home_. 
> 
> An R.A. is a [Resident Assistant, much like being the ](http://collegelife.about.com/od/livingoncampus/a/beinganRA.htm)[housemother](http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/housemother) at a boarding school, served by a peer.
> 
> In chapter 2, Kyle is singing (incorrectly) the [theme song](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4HW7YTWeg20) from [_Tiny Toons_](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tiny_Toon_Adventures).
> 
> Books Temperance read to the Davis children in chapter 3 include:  
> Heilbroner, Joan, & Eastman, P.D. _Robert the Rose Horse_.  
>  Perkins, Al. _The Digging-est Dog_.  
>  Wiesner, David. _Tuesday_ ("The fwog book").  
>  Williams, Margery. _The Velveteen Rabbit_.
> 
> Songs sung at the Davises' church:  
> ["Abide With Me, Fast Falls the Eventide"](http://www.hymnal.net/hymn.php/h/370) by Henry Francis Lyte/William Henry Monk (1847)  
> ["Come, Ye Disconsolate"](http://www.hymnal.net/hymn.php/h/684) by Thomas Moore/Samuel Webbe (1816)  
> ["Thy Word (is a Lamp Unto My Feet)"](http://www.last.fm/music/Amy+Grant/_/Thy+Word) by [Amy Grant/Michael W. Smith](http://www.lyricsfreak.com/a/amy+grant/thy+word_20007722.html) (1984)
> 
> All characters are mine unless they were mentioned or introduced on the series or are real people. Canonical characters in the story include: Brennan, Michael Stires ("The Girl in the Fridge"), Frau Becker (never met, just mentioned in "The Finder"). Characters from "Death of the Queen Bee" include: Ray Buxley, Rebecca (Becky) Conway , Sarah Tidwiller, Julie Coyle, Brad Benson, Evelyn Simms, Carrie Turner, Andy Pflueger (also mentioned in "Boy in the Time Capsule").
> 
> The following are real people:  
> [Jean Donovan](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jean_Donovan)  
> [Luis Gutiérrez](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Luis_Guti%C3%A9rrez)  
> [Walter Jacobson, CBS affiliate news anchor](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Walter_Jacobson)  
> [Congressman Mel Reynolds](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mel_Reynolds)  
> [Tom Skilling, WGN weather anchor](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tom_Skilling)
> 
> The following are real places:  
> [WGN-TV](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/WGN-TV) is a local (and nationally-broadcast cable) TV station in Chicago.  
> [Aldi](http://aldi.us/index_ENU_HTML.htm) is a popular cheap grocery (local and national chain, originally from Germany).  
> [Chicago Museum Campus](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chicago_Museum_Campus) is at the lakefront in the southeast corner of Grant Park and encompasses the Adler Planetarium, the Shedd Aquarium, the Field Museum of Natural History.  
> Given the fictional name "Burtonsville" and the landscape and general appearance of what was shown in "The Death of the Queen Bee," I have written this as if Brennan is from [Bensenville, Illinois](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bensenville_il) and its environs, which are west of Chicago proper. The high schools and local colleges I chose are from those areas.  
> The [PACE bus transit system](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pace_\(transit\)), along with the [Metra trains](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Metra), is the suburban arm of the [CTA](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chicago_Transit_Authority).


End file.
